


Strange Seas

by 27dragons, tisfan



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 18th Century, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Anal Sex, Dragons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Escapes, Fae & Fairies, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Quests, The Ten Rings (Marvel), Time Shenanigans, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 74,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Defeating the Mandarin had come at the cost of the Ancient One’s life, and while Stephen Strange was trying to save her, the Mandarin’s ten rings of power slipped away in search of new bearers. Now he and his faithful (if dour) companion, Wong, must try to recover them before a new Mandarin can emerge to terrorize the world. Stephen is prepared for fell magics and formidable warriors -- but Tony Stark catches him entirely unawares.Tony Stark was sailing to London to take possession of his father’s offices and factories there when his ship was beset by pirates. Now he’s a prisoner with a magical and semi-sentient artifact buried in his chest, tasked with the impossible and his life on the line. The appearance of a pair of sorcerers seeking the ring that keeps him alive is the very last thing he needs.





	1. Chapter 1

“You'd think after all this time I'd be ready. But look at me, stretching one moment out into a thousand, just so I can watch the snow,” she said, and their hands were linked together.

The snow was beautiful, Stephen Strange would admit; in the light of the burning houses, it glittered like gold before disappearing into the blanket of mud and blood at their feet.

“I can save you,” Stephen promised, and it might have been true. He tried to loosen his hold on the Ancient One’s hand, but she clung tighter. Even in the Astral Realm, she was stronger. She’d always been stronger, and his hands were weak. Even in the Astral Realm.

“I have never seen past this moment, in all my time looking forward,” she said. “A thousand paths leading to this single failure.”

“You didn’t fail,” Stephen told her, seriously. “We’ve won.”

“Have we, Stephen?” And she smiled at him, that tight, mysterious upturn of her lips that seemed always to say how very, very old she was, how nameless and timeless. “I wonder--”

Stephen clenched his fingers tighter, despite the pain in his shattered and badly healed fingers, but they closed on nothing, and he could do nothing but watch as her soul faded and vanished.

“No!” He was back in his own body, aching and tired, bloody from battle. “Wong, help me. I need bandages, I need my kit.” The Ancient One was sprawled on the ground, her eyes open and filling up with snow that melted down her face like tears. She didn’t blink and she wasn’t breathing. Stephen cleared her mouth with a shaking finger, then tipped her head back and started forcing his air into her lungs, praying to myriad gods that he didn’t believe in. _Don’t leave me, not now._

Wong limped heavily over and dropped Stephen’s doctor’s bag on the ground beside him. His somber features were tinged with pity. “She’s gone, Strange. They’re all gone.”

Stephen shuddered. How could they fail, _now_? How could he fail her? He couldn’t even weep for the loss; he was too weary and too cold. The Mandarin had led them on a merry chase across half the globe, only to end somewhere in the desolation that was winter in Mongolia. Somewhere north of Yahi Lake, Stephen thought, although he wasn’t certain -- they’d used the Mandarin’s own portal to chase him that final step.

“Damn it!”

The Cloak of Levitation pulled itself closer around his shoulders, holding in what little body heat he had, reminding him that he had a duty to the living, even when the dead mocked him from their rude postures, lying stiff and broken in the mud. “Get them together, we can’t leave them here,” Stephen said. He stood, slowly, aching in every bone, half frozen and bitter with grief.

The Mandarin lay, shattered, on the other side of the village square, destroyed by his own ambition and a well-timed illusion. “Was it me?” he asked. “Did I kill him?” He’d sworn an oath not to kill, _to do no harm,_ and time and time again, he’d found himself on the wrong side of that line, as well. Perhaps he didn’t kill the Mandarin, only convinced him for a split second that Stephen had somehow managed to steal one of the rings. It had thrown off the Mandarin’s concentration and the power of the Ten Rings had ripped him apart.

Wong folded his arms. “You don’t even know. You threw off that spell, and then you went to her side even though she told you that the most important thing was to get the rings.”

Stephen gestured at their fallen enemy. “He’s not going anywhere,” he said. _Miles left to go until we sleep_ , he thought, and trudged over to the dead man. Lifted one hand and-- “Where are they?”

“She _told_ you,” Wong insisted. “ _I_ told you. The rings have minds of their own, a sense of will. You have to take control of them immediately, or...” He waved a hand. “This.”

“This?” Stephen stared at the man’s naked fingers. Each digit was bent and twisted, so much like Stephen’s own hand, but for much less noble reasons. Stephen snorted at his own hubris. The loss of his hands was nothing but stupidity and the folly of men. “I… barely a moment passed. Where… where did they go? And how? I felt no surges of power, saw nothing.” He almost collapsed there in the snow and blood. So much death and destruction, and for what?

What was he supposed to do now? He wasn’t ready for this; the Ancient One had only recently declared him her heir, to the dismay of several of his fellows who had been studying longer, who knew more secrets, for whom the mastery of the mystic arts hadn’t been such a struggle. _Great_ , he thought. _My first moments as the Sorcerer Supreme and I’m already failing._

Fear of failure, hatred of failure, had driven him far, but it seemed like it wasn’t going to drive him any further.

“Scattered,” Wong said. “They could be anywhere on Earth, waiting for the next Mandarin to reunite them.” His dour face turned even moreso. “We have much work to do.”

“Apparently, we do,” Stephen said. They couldn’t give up, and let so much effort and death be all for naught. He wiped at his face, crystals of snow abrading his skin. “And first we must lay the fallen to rest.” He left the Mandarin where he lay; there were Ten Rings fanatics who’d find and take care of their own; he didn’t want to tempt them to Kamar-Taj in search of their master’s body.

With a painful effort, he concentrated on the courtyard there, the view of the mountains, the smell of the air. He directed his thoughts to his sling ring and spun up a portal. It wasn’t snowing there, at least. He locked the portal in place and helped Wong move the bodies. A full dozen students, and one other master. And the Ancient One.

God forgive him.

***

In the end, it had cost him the favors of at least one Celestial being, nearly a pint of his own blood, and dozens of uses of the Eye of Agamotto, but finally, they had a map.

A map with rusty brown circles, indicating the locations of the ten rings. On any night they had access to moonlight, they could update the map, see if the rings had moved, which was good, because they didn’t all seem to stay still.

In further fact, one of them was at sea, and moving from just off the coast of New York, headed for Europe.

“We’re going to need a boat,” Stephen said, sighing. “There’s no way to accurately sling to the ocean and expect to find it.” He hoped the ring was aboard a ship, and not, say, swallowed by a whale or something. Jonah was _not_ an appropriate role model.

Wong harrumphed. “That’s the one you want to go for first?”

“I could pin the map to the wall and let you throw darts,” Stephen suggested. “We’ll be here all week while I wait for your dart to get anywhere near the wall, mind.”

Wong stared at him for a long minute. “I’ll go pack a bag,” he said, and turned on his heel.

Stephen felt a tickle in the back of his throat, and when he opened his mouth, discovered it was a laugh. The Cloak settled on his shoulders and he rolled up the map to tuck it inside the interior pocket. “Don’t lose that,” he told the Cloak seriously. “I’m counting on you.”

***

Tony leaned over the map in the captain’s quarters and considered the marks that represented their positions. “So what, exactly, are you telling me?”

The captain spread his hands. He was an older man who had been sailing Stark cargo since before Tony was born, stocky and phlegmatic. “They were already too close to us when they came out of hiding. Moving too fast. Somehow, they knew we were coming. We cannot outrun them.”

“We’re going to have to let them board us?” It ran counter to every one of Tony’s instincts, to just let the pirates take what they wanted off the ship.

“If we try to fight, there’s a good chance that _both_ ships will sink,” the captain said. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, Mr. Stark, none of this cargo is worth your life.”

“It’s standard practice,” the first mate added, a handsome woman with a full head of dark curls that rippled down her back. “Pirate ships are lighter, faster. But that also means they’re narrow through the beam. More maneuverable, but they can’t carry as much. They’ll go for the lightweight cargo that’ll bring the most in port sales. We’ve a few barrels of rotgut rum for just such an occasion. Piracy’s mostly a matter of luck; it’s a big damn ocean. They’ll take what they want, that they can carry, and we’ll have our lives, and at least eighty percent of the haul. Minimum of violence, and quite frankly, the swim to shore’s a long one.”

Tony sighed and slumped. “It’s your ship, Captain,” he sighed. “I defer to your expertise. I’ll go tell Rhodey to stop sharpening his sword.” He took his leave of the captain and first mate, making his way back to the guesting cabin he was sharing with his friend. “We’re going to run up the white flag,” he announced, flopping dramatically onto his bunk.

Looking nearly as disgusted as Tony felt, Rhodey snapped up his spyglass and peered out the porthole in the direction of the pirate ship again. It had started as a smudge on the horizon and was rapidly closing. They’d be within range of the merchant’s ship’s 8 pounders within twenty minutes. What was the point in having a cannonade if they weren’t going to use them? “I don’t know this flag, Tones,” Rhodey said. “Never seen it before. With, say, Captain Kidd or Henry Morgan, we know their reputation. Can’t say the same with some of these newer pirates.”

Rhodey handed the spyglass over to Tony. The pirate ship was packing at least ten guns that Tony could see on the port side, and its flag was not the usual black with stylized skull and crossbones or swords, but a red flag with a series of interlocking circles. They were still too far away for Tony to see individual faces, just the shadows and blur of bodies moving on the decks.

“Well, the captain says it’s safer to just let them take a sample, and the first mate concurs, and both of them have been doing this a lot longer than I have, so...” He made a face and handed the glass back to Rhodey. “As long as we get to London in one piece, right?”

“Think of it this way,” Rhodey said, encouragingly, “it’ll make a hell of a story. I bet the Londoners will go crazy for it. You won’t have to spend a single night alone, if you don’t want.”

Despite his glib words, Rhodey pulled out a two-shot muff-pistol and handed it to Tony. “It’s loaded, so don’t be stupid with it. For personal protection only.” He gripped Tony’s shoulder in a tight squeeze. “You remember how to fire one of those, right?” That was a joke; Tony’s family _made_ guns, of course he knew how to fire one. He’d proven that to Rhodey a long time ago, and then they’d suckered a whole passel of their fellows who kept mistaking Tony for a useless rich swell.

“When have you ever known me to be stupid?” Tony asked lightly, stuffing the pistol into his belt. That was a joke, too.

“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?” Rhodey grinned. He checked the ship’s distance again. “Coming soon, Tones. Stay with me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it, mother hen.” Tony followed Rhodey back out onto the deck, where the crew who weren’t immediately busy had lined up at the rail to watch the pirate ship approach. “Anyone ever seen that flag before?” he wondered aloud.

The white flag flapped in the sharp breeze, an oddly cheerful display in the middle of what was a tense situation. No one answered. The first mate and some of the crew were bringing up choice items from the hold -- the faster they could get the pirates to take what they wanted and go, the better for everyone.

The ship closed, pulled alongside. Ropes whistled through the air, hooks biting into the ship’s hull. With a crunch, the two ships were bound together.

The crew of the pirate ship were a mix, men and women, dark skinned and fair. The pirate captain was a huge, brawny man with a beard like a hedge who spoke with kicks and curses to a skinny, balding man wearing thick spectacles.

“Captain Bakaar says to stand and deliver, and he will release you unharmed,” the man said, and he was pushed forward until he sprawled on their decks, his hands bleeding from contact with the wood. “If… if you do what he says, he will let you go.”

Tony’s hands twitched, but even if it was technically his ship, he wasn’t the captain.

“Take your share, then, and be damned for it,” the captain said, gruff and unimpressed.

The translator got himself upright, wiping his hands on his trousers. He smiled broad and fake, and yelled a few words back to the pirate captain. He scanned the group on the decks, and when he met Tony’s gaze his eyes widened and he hastily looked away. “They are looking for one specific item,” he told them, carefully not looking at Tony. “If you know its location, they will go faster. A ring, of a strange blue metal.”

Bakaar pointed, yelled. One of the pirates spread out a blanket on the deck.

The translator shrugged. “All jewelry, on the cloth, if you please.”

The crew grumbled, but started stripping off earrings and wrist cuffs. A few of them wore rings, but they were all plain silver, a couple of gold. Tony exchanged glances with Rhodey, and dropped his own ring, a gaudy piece set with several gems that had been a gift from Obie, just before they’d set sail.

The pirates swarmed over the ship like rats, searching and yelling to each other in a language that Tony didn’t speak. The translator stepped closer and said, from the corner of his mouth, “You would be wise to keep your head down, and do not stare. If I recognize you, he may as well.”

Solid advice, though it was hard not to stare. Tony tried to keep his head down, and he could feel Rhodey inching between him and pirates.

There was a sudden crack from below and a gurgle of water.

“No!” their captain yelled. He lunged toward the hold and three pirates were there, suddenly, with guns and knifes at the ready. “They’re splitting the water casks! Damn you for a coward, Bakaar--”

That would be the death of them all, in short order.

Bakaar crossed over, his boots ringing against the deck. He barked a few words at the translator, and then slapped the captain across the face.

The captain, his cheek going red, more with impotent fury than the blow, Tony thought, straightened, and then spat in Bakaar’s face.

Bakaar grinned, broad and cheerful, drew his pistol in a single motion and shot the captain between the eyes.

“No!” Tony grabbed for the pistol in his belt, and was barely conscious of Rhodey grabbing his arm to pull him back. “You bastard!”

He swung the pistol up to shoot at the pirate captain, but Bakaar’s weapon was already pointing at Tony. The crack of the shot rang out, oddly echoed by a splintering sound. The pistol exploded in his hand with a force that knocked him off his feet. Pain blossomed in his hand first, and then his chest, even before he hit the ground. Jagged shards of breath stabbed into his lungs. Tony looked down to see blood blooming over his shirt. Someone was yelling, several someones. The explosion was still thundering in his ears. He pushed at the deck, rolled over, meaning to climb to his feet, but he couldn’t quite make his legs work. The blanket with the jewelry on it was in front of him, the ring from Obie glittering at the edge of the pile. Tony reached for it.

His blood smeared across the gems, darkening them, and then the ring... sang? It _changed_ , and Tony had to be seeing things, it was singing and absorbing his blood and turning bright, sky-blue.

There was more yelling, excited and loud, but somehow muffled, as if it were coming from very far away.

“Oh, Mr. Stark,” the translator said, “I’m afraid you didn’t want to do that.” There was a hand on his chest, and it hurt. Tony could barely breathe, his heart thundered in his ears, and then it faltered.

The man tore open Tony’s shirt and-- took the ring from Tony’s hand. “Forgive me,” he said, and pushed the ring against the wound on Tony’s chest. Spoke words that Tony didn’t understand.

Everything went black, except for a brief sparkle of blue light. The world flipped over and something settled over him, like _expectation_. Like some small creature, hopeful for a snack, begging for attention.

“Tell it,” the translator said in his ear, low and soft. “Tell it you accept the burden. Tell it, Mr. Stark, or you will die.”

_I... accept?_ Tony thought. That sense of expectation prodded at him again, and the pain in his chest was making it even harder to draw a breath.

“Tell it,” the translator urged.

Tony opened his mouth to say the words, but couldn’t speak through the pain. _I accept,_ he thought urgently. _I don’t want to die. Not like this. Please..._

There were rough hands on him, more screaming. He was lifted ungently, dragged. The last thing he knew was Rhodey shouting his name, and the smell of burning… cloth? He managed to open his eyes long enough to see the ship, their ship, his ship… was on fire.

The men carrying him dropped him, and the pain was so bad that darkness swelled, washed over him, and Tony let it carry him away.


	2. Chapter 2

_Stephen was never sure what was worse; that people were dying of the plague or that there were fake alchemists and snake oil salesmen who were taking advantage of people’s fear to make a tidy fortune. Perhaps worst of all was that people would gather to listen to the quacks, and thus spread the illness even further._

“ _You must listen,” Stephen tried again. “People must stay in their homes. These cures are nothing, they’re practically poison. Stay indoors, rest for the ill. No bleeding. People need their strength to fight off the disease, but they can do it.”_

_The bailiff ignored him. His own solicitor ignored him._

_They were on a witch hunt and the bands of traveling alchemists had the money and backing to accuse Stephen instead, even though some of them were even coming down with the illness themselves. Should that not have proven to people that their cures were mere vapors? But logic had no place in the face of terror._

_At first, the charlatans were content merely to try to get him driven from the city, which was terrible enough. But then someone hit upon the idea of blaming Stephen for the sickness. It was a masterful move: of course the servant of the Devil who was responsible for creating the disease would want to stop the cures._

_Stephen, convinced to the bitter end that truth and reason would at last hold sway, had stood there, utterly shocked, when the judge found him guilty of heresy and witchcraft._

_Stephen was a_ scientist _._

_He was a natural philosopher. He believed in the proof of his own eyes. In experiments whose results could be repeated._

_When he wouldn’t confess, he was punished. Tortured. He spent two days in the stocks and was pilloried through the streets. And then each of the false alchemists he had accused were allowed to stack weights on Stephen’s hands. Idle hands were the Devil’s work._

_His wouldn’t work, not ever again._

_His fingers were crushed, the delicate bones in his hands snapped under the leaden weights. Over and over-- his screaming didn’t move them, his pleas didn’t stop them--_

Stephen woke with a jerk, hands and wrists aching.

After his trial, he had been driven from the city. His nurse, Christine, had met him at the border, where she’d splinted his broken hands as best she could and supplied him with opium for pain, but she could do no more.

Even in the near darkness, Stephen could see his mangled fingers, the way the knuckles bent at unnatural angles, the way he could never stop their shaking.

He wasn’t going to sleep again this night. The old dream always destroyed his peace of mind. After five years, he would have hoped that the things he’d gained would outweigh everything he’d lost, that he could have some freedom of that burden.

He rolled out of the thin pallet of blankets, got to his feet, and went abovedecks.

The ship was aglow with magical runes and spells so that they wouldn’t have to supply a full crew or hire on experts who could not be trusted. Wong and Stephen had set to work with an old shipwreck. Pulling it from the waves had been simplicity itself.

Getting the damn thing to actually sail, on the other hand… Stephen had been very impressed with Wong’s ingenuity, but he wasn’t positive that an unknown crew might not have been at least a little bit safer.

Stephen shook his head.

The moon was just a sliver on the horizon, but there was moonlight. Stephen plucked the map from his pocket and spread it on the forecastle. Murmured over it, and spread his hand, calling up the tracking spell.

The brown-red circles of his blood shifted and shimmered and--

“Wong!”

Wong burst up onto the deck, magical defenses and counterattacks already glowing around his hands. His narrow eyes swept the deck, and then settled on Stephen. His magic faded and his defensive posture relaxed. “Oh. It’s just you. What is it?”

“I believe one of the rings has been recovered,” he said, pointing to the map. Previously, there had been two circles in the Atlantic, one stationary, near the Carribean island chain, the other in progress across the ocean. Now-- “They have changed direction. Look.” He traced the line along the mapped ocean currents. He twisted, two fingers stirring up the illusion to create a tiny ship sailing on the seas. “If they are confined to merely wind and sails, they will be there in three days time.” Another twitch, and their own ship appeared on the map. “We’re eight days behind them. We need to move faster.”

“You think if I knew a way to make this tub move faster, I wouldn’t already have used it?” Wong demanded. “They’ll have to stop eventually for food and water. We’ll catch up.”

Stephen grumbled. “If they recover two rings, they will be that much harder to stop,” he said. “Come, let’s reset the sails and check for leaks, as long as we’re awake.”

Wong grunted as he moved toward the mast. “If you’d taken the rings when you had the chance...” he grumbled.

Stephen ran a hand through his hair. The failure still haunted him, as if the ghost of the Ancient One was standing over his shoulder, urging him to hurry. Frankly, he might prefer that; if she was a spirit haunting him, he might be able to consult with her for advice. She had such faith in him, in his _innate goodness_ , she called it.

Stephen didn’t feel like a good man; he felt like a lost child.

“You’re the one who keeps telling me not to meddle with time, lest I get stuck in a loop,” Stephen reminded Wong, although really, the time stream was not as complicated as Wong and the others seemed to believe. Stephen had experimented a few times, when no one was watching him. The one time Wong had caught him at it, Stephen had backed up long enough to fix that mistake and move on.

He could do it, he was pretty sure. But only in a true emergency.

They were inconvenienced by the scattering of the rings, but perhaps not enough to justify an alteration of time.

Not just yet.

“And I stand by that,” Wong said firmly. He gripped the ropes in strong, whole hands. “Go shove tar in the cracks.”

“You know what the problem is with being a master of the mystic arts?” Stephen asked. It was a rhetorical question, really, but he didn’t have anyone else to practice his wit against.

Wong grunted again. He was probably only feigning that utter disinterest.

“The pay is terrible,” Stephen said. “We’re _sorcerers_ , Wong, and the men who sell snake oil out of the backs of rickety wagons have more money than we do. Tell me, how is that fair?” He held out one hand, fingers spread and painful, as he let the echoes of his magic tell him where the cracks were weakening. With the other hand, he directed the convincing thought of _hot_ at the tar bucket, making the pitch bubble and steam.

“The world isn’t a fair place,” Wong said, watching golden sparkles slither up the rope like raindrops in reverse, pulling ropes taut or winding them to move the sails. “I thought you’d figured that out already.”

“Perhaps I should take comfort in the general unfairness of the universe,” Stephen mused. “After all, the alternative is that I _deserve_ to be stuck out here in the ocean, in this rotting corpse of a ship, chasing after Ten Rings fanatics. And so do you.”

***

He wasn’t sure when the world stopped rocking under him. And certainly he wasn’t expecting the bone-aching cold. But what finally woke him was the sound of pouring water, which set his throat on fire and drew attention to his dry mouth and pounding, throbbing headache. Tony Stark opened his eyes.

The balding translator was standing nearby, scraping off the remains of shaving glycerin with a straight razor. “Good morning, Mr. Stark,” he said. “I see you have decided to live.”

“What--” It came out as a croak. “Where am I?” His memory was fuzzy. He remembered the pirates boarding, the captain’s cold-blooded murder. He’d... been shot? The thought was a jolt of fear, and he half-sat, scrabbling at the bandages wrapped around his chest.

“You, my friend, are in the hands of some of your very best customers,” he said. “A cult of pirates and mercenaries, fanatics and true believers. The Ten Rings.” He wiped his face off with a ragged towel. “We met once before, Mr. Stark, although I doubt you recall. If I had consumed half as much scotch as you, I would not have been able to stand, much less carry on credible conversation about the smelting and distilling of rare metals. My name is Yinsen.”

“Yinsen,” Tony repeated dumbly. There was a glowing blue and white ring embedded in his chest. “What the hell is this? What did you do to me?”

“Saved your life,” Yinsen said. “Not an easy task, nor one without consequences. Tell me, what do you know of the mystic arts?”

Tony scoffed. “Charlatans and fakery.” It was an echo of his father that he’d never thought to question.

“Do you doubt the evidence of your own eyes, Stark?” Yinsen gestured to the ring in his chest. “What was once a ring for a man’s finger now resides inside your chest, keeping your heart beating, healing your wounds. Your gun’s chamber was struck, just as you fired. I’ve seen it happen before, perhaps twice. Ill luck. But you are a weaponsmith, you must know the results of such an event.”

“It exploded.” Tony looked down at his hand, which should be badly burned, if not entirely removed, after such an event. It was untouched. Whole and hale. He looked down at the ring in his chest again. “What is it?”

“An artifact of great power,” Yinsen said. “And what they sought when they took your ship. One of the Ten Rings, for which they have named themselves. If all ten are brought together, the man who claims them has virtually unlimited power. But it will protect itself, and whoever claims it. It is yours, now, until your death.”

“Which won’t be much longer, if it’s what they’re after,” Tony surmised. He touched the light gingerly. It was warm, and vibrated just slightly under his fingers like the rumble of a purring kitten. Something moved at the back of his mind, a sleepy smugness.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Yinsen said. “I had to speak very quickly, and perhaps I have done nothing but doom us both. And yet we needed the _time_. They know now, who you are. Your skill with metal working. You have abilities that they need.”

Yinsen might have gone further, but there was a rush of feet and the door to the room was unlocked and flung open. A dozen men with weapons stood there, and the captain of the pirate ship, as well. “Stark--” he said, and that was the only word that Tony understood, but Yinsen was translating rapidly.

“--welcome to the Caribbean, Mr. Stark. We are honored to have you as our guest. Come, see the wonders that make this island famous, and we will speak of how we might help each other.”

The man was a bloodthirsty murderer, surrounded by his crew, and Tony was unarmed and, except perhaps for Yinsen, alone. He had little choice. Slowly, he climbed to his feet and followed where Bakaar gestured.

“He is speaking now of the history of the island, a pirate’s treasure buried under the surface, and the curse laid out; when the second of ten rings came here some weeks ago, it turned the curse to its own use. The rings protect themselves, you see, until someone comes to claim them, someone _worthy_ ,” Yinsen said, and his mouth twitched as he looked pointedly at the pale glow emitting from Tony’s chest. “The blood, your blood, from one who has so very much blood on his hands. The Merchant of Death, you’ve been called.”

Bakaar shoved and Tony found himself inside hell. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

Red light drenched the walls of the cave -- the source, an active damn volcano under their feet. It was already hot, too hot. The air was baking out of his chest. “Look there, Mr. Stark, and view _Incandescence_ , one of the companions to your own ring, _Spin_.”

There was a strange yearning in his chest, reaching for the other ring, a crying out, and a familiarity, like family.

Tony took a few stumbling steps forward, hand already reaching without his having willed it.

Bakaar grabbed him by the hair and yanked him backward, speaking rapidly.

“You will die from the air in here before you get halfway, if your skin is not peeled off your bones by the heat,” Yinsen told him. “And Bakaar says that, still, you will collect Incandescence for them, and then they will set you free.”

Tony swallowed and put his hand over the ring in his chest, seeking to quiet its yearning. The touch only made the sensation stronger. And yet Tony could see that there was no way to reach the other ring, not for a mortal. “How does he think I’m going to do that?”

“The power of Spin,” Yinsen translated. “Among its other powers, it grants flight to its wielder. You will master this ability, and you will discover the secrets of the dragon iron, which will protect you on your journey. When Incandescence is in Bakaar’s hand, he will be able to remove Spin from your chest.”

Of _that_ , Tony had little doubt. He didn’t expect to survive the extraction.

“Dragon iron,” he said doubtfully. It was a fabled substance, rarer than diamonds and ten times as precious. Lighter than cork and stronger than steel, myth claimed it had been forged from the bones of dragons. Tony had once held a dagger made of the stuff, but no living smith knew the secret to working it. “You’ve got dragon iron here.”

Bakaar gestured proudly, as the group left the volcano.

“Look before you, Stark, at the shape of the mountain. In the caves below, there is the raw material. Slave labor has been mining it here these past dozen years or more. Bricked enough to forge weapons for at least a legion, or to build a dozen of the dragon guns. But they cannot work it. They brought me here, months ago, to attempt to puzzle out the secret. And now, now they have the great Tony Stark.”

“And he wants me to figure out how to work it, to create a shield that will let me recover Incandescence.” Tony suppressed another scoff. If the pirates knew he couldn’t do it, then they’d kill Tony outright, immediately.

“It’s not wholly impossible,” Yinsen said, and Tony was learning to recognize when it was Bakaar’s words that Yinsen was repeating and when it was the translator’s own thoughts. “What has been done before can be done again. With our combined abilities, perhaps we will be able to come upon the solution.”

And then live out the rest of his few days as a slave. With dragon iron weapons, the pirates could rule all the seven seas.

Still, he had no choice. Not for now. Maybe later, they would slip and he’d find a way off this island. “Show me the smithy.”

***

_Clay_.

Dragon iron wasn’t a metal at all. It was clay. A strange smelling, chalky white clay. Lighter than anything Tony had ever seen.

They had _stacks_ of it, bricks upon bricks, molded into slabs and stamped with their Ten Ring symbol.

And a thick, leather bound book, ancient, written in a language Tony didn’t speak, couldn’t read. With drawings. The drawings showed a smith with hammer and tongs working the dragon iron as if it were any other metal, but that was impossible. Clay wasn’t steel. It would shatter under the blows of a smithy hammer, be pounded into dust.

“This,” Yinsen said, tapping one of the pages. “I believe this is the secret. And what they brought me here for.” He licked at his lips tentatively. “I’m an alchemist, or I was, before Ten Rings destroyed my village, seeking this book.”

“Can you read any of it?” Tony turned the pages, seeking any clues. A label on one of the drawings, a table of numbers, anything.

“A little,” Yinsen said. “And only because alchemy is so old that the names for herbs and tinctures haven’t changed much. There are no amounts, no proportions. A recipe so well known, or so secret, that they didn’t feel the need to mark more than the plants used to make, I believe, an oil that will allow the bones of the dragon to be worked like steel. They have… supplied everything I need, but I do not know what raw steel looks or feels like. I can’t tell if I’ve succeeded. We will work together. Let me show you my setup.”

Yinsen’s workspace was similar to every other alchemist’s that Tony had seen -- scales and weights and jars and bottles and devices of measurement. Strange smells that made Tony want to sneeze. Yinsen had several small bricks of the clay laid out for testing his oils on. “Which ones have you tried?”

Yinsen’s notes were written in a neat hand. And in English, which apparently the pirates didn’t speak. Or read. Because the recipe was already laid out, very precisely. Along with several other recipes, including a caustic explosive, and fuel for a flame-wand. “We shall have to try them all,” he said.

Ideas began to spark along the back of Tony’s neck, tickling their way into his brain. “Yes,” he agreed. “ _All_ of them.”


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Wong’s complaints that the sea air was bad for books -- and Wong took his duties as the Master Librarian very seriously -- Stephen had brought one of the texts up to the deck, a manual on the development of limited sentience in magical artifacts.

He set up a shield to protect the book from stray waves and spray, and himself from the pounding sun. The Cloak kept reading over his shoulder and squeezing at his ear whenever he read a paragraph that the Cloak disagreed with.

The Cloak being one of those magical artifacts that had some sense of self, a will, and the means to enact its will, Stephen supposed the text could be considered rather insulting. He wondered how he would feel, reading about humans from the point of view of something that was _other than_.

“If you disagree so wholeheartedly,” he told the Cloak, “perhaps you should scribe your own book.”

The Cloak snapped the book shut and then wrapped itself around the binding, holding it closed. The world’s angriest parcel, it quivered at him, offended.

“What? It’s a perfectly rational suggestion,” Stephen said. He stroked one finger down the collar, which usually softened the Cloak’s temper. “Come, let me read. It could provide insight to the nature of the rings.”

The Cloak sulked for a moment before giving up the book and returning to hovering just behind his shoulder. Which was good, because it was quite too warm to be wearing it. Stephen opened the book again and found himself humming as he read. Each sentence seemed, somehow, _more…_ than the first time he read it. Like he was gaining insight to the author’s thought process that had not quite made it onto the page.

A shadow passed over the deck, like an enormous bird, but the sky was empty. A splash, off the port side of the ship. Were there flying fish in these waters?

Stephen was still humming, like a long-forgotten song in his ears. He put the book down, listening.

The Cloak grabbed the offending book and tucked it under Stephen’s deck chair and then swept a pile of discarded rope over it.

Stephen barely noticed. Something, _something…_ he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he could hear something. Feel something. He got to his feet and noticed that Wong was coming up from below, an uncharacteristic smile on his face.

“It’s beautiful,” Wong said, his eyes searching the horizon.

Stephen took a step toward the rail, feeling his forehead wrinkle. He could almost, but not quite, hear something, someone. Whispering. Secrets. Knowledge. Truth.

“Is, uh,” Stephen said, “the wards?” The keel was glowing, orange warning runes lighting up and growing brighter as Stephen approached, but what danger did he pose to the ship? It didn’t make sense, unless Wong had drawn them incorrectly. Or--

He directed a suspicious look at Wong. They’d been colleagues more than friends, and frequently in opposition for the way they did things. Would Wong try to close him out of the loop? Surely not. But maybe…

Stephen was jerked back a step as the Cloak landed on his shoulders and flapped backward frantically. His boots slid over the deck, scrambling helplessly. “Stop that!”

Wong was leaning against the deck rail, ignoring the bright orange of the warning runes, leaning over to listen. “Come, come closer,” he begged. “Almost...”

 _We know many things_ , a voice seemed to taunt him from the water.

_We know where the rings are._

_We know how to bring back the dead._

_We know how to heal your hands._

_Come to us, beloved, and we will share all that we know._

The Cloak was nearly strangling him in its efforts to keep him on the ship and Stephen didn’t want to hurt it, but he was desperate to get closer, to hear more, to--

The Cloak wrapped itself around his head, muffling sight and smell and sound. Smothering him, like a bag over his head, and then it rapped him on the forehead several times. _Stop it, dummy,_ it seemed to be telling him.

The compulsion dropped off like a bucket of ice water poured over Stephen’s head and he gasped with sudden fear and understanding. “ _Sirens_.” Stephen drew his arms back, summoning his protective wards. He conjured a shield, for all the good it would do, and then a whip. He wasn’t sure where Wong was, couldn’t hear anything and couldn’t see, but perhaps the Cloak would help him aim. He lashed out with the whip, hoping to catch Wong around the waist or ankle, before he went over the side.

Something was tangled in his whip and Stephen jerked it back, pulling as hard as he could. The Cloak unwrapped for a brief instant, enough that Stephen’s whip fell apart in his hand, and he took a tentative step toward the rail again. He brought his shield up in time to keep Wong’s conjured blade from taking his head off at the neck.

As soon as the whip disintegrated, Wong had forgotten him again and was scrambling back toward the deck railing. “Come back!” he cried out. “Tell me where it is!”

The Cloak wrapped itself around him again, a frantic turban, covering his ears and squeezing hard enough to give Stephen a raging headache. A quick slash of his hand and he pulled Wong off the deck, levitating him backward toward the mast. “Stop fighting me,” he yelled. “They’re sirens, sirens! Wong. Tell me what to do; how do you stop a siren?”   

Wong struggled fiercely. “Stop trying to distract me with infantile questions!” he snapped. “Everyone knows you need a bubble of silence for sirens! Now let me go! They know the location of the Lost Tome of the Divine!”

Stephen took a deep breath and centered himself, hands forming the plea for meditation, combined with the wrist tilt to enforce one’s will on another. He stretched, powering the thought with mystical energy and then threw the spell, a glitter of golden light and stretched over Wong, and then, when Stephen added another jolt of power, covered the entire vessel.  

The spell was fragile, it wasn’t meant to be stretched like Stephen was forcing it, and if he cast the binding wrong, it would snap back with a discharge that would likely knock him off his feet. “Wong, old friend,” he said, very gently. “Stop.”

Wong’s head turned so fast that Stephen feared he’d strain his neck. His eyes were stretched wide. “Sirens!” he gasped. He looked up at the fragile bubble stretched around them. His jaw firmed, and he reached up, adding his own strength to the shield, helping to bind and anchor it.

The Cloak unwrapped itself from Stephen’s head, tugging his hair as it did so, and settled on his shoulders. “Will they attack?” He drew up another shield with one hand. He could still hear Wong, the creaking of the ship’s ropes, the ripple of the sails, the anchor-chain…

_The anchor-chain?_

Stephen bolted to the ship’s aft, grabbed the spindle that controlled the anchor. He managed to yank it to a halt, but the weight had increased at least tenfold. The sirens were pulling the ship _backward_.

He added mystical energy, his wrists glowing with strength.

And then he was face-to-face with a siren as it climbed up the chain.

No pretty mermaid, this, but a fish-like creature with grasping, clawed hands and a mouthful of needle-like teeth. Stringy green hair surrounded its face, huge eyes and no nose to speak of. _Hideous_. It lunged forward, snapping at Stephen’s face.

A golden shield appeared between Stephen and the creature, forcing it to rebound. Wong used the shield to push it farther away, and a bright spellblade appeared in his hand. “There are more of them!” he said, and spun to slash at another. A gesture of his hand threw it back over the railing.

“Well, of course there are,” Stephen responded. He gestured and locked a heavy weight around one fin, shoving the creature off the ship and into the water where it disappeared into the depths. He wracked his memory for whatever facts he knew about the creatures, which admittedly wasn’t much. Kamar-Taj wasn’t exactly a seaside resort. “They’re territorial. We just need to get out of their waters.”

“So you’re saying we just need to hold them off until the ship sails far enough away?” Wong said. He curled his fingers and his magic pried another one off the anchor chain, tossing it back into the sea. “Brilliant strategy. Now I truly understand the genius of the Sorcerer Supreme.”

“Thanks,” Stephen snapped. He summed a tube of mystical energy, using it to peer across the waves, as far away as he could. “Hold on to something!” He snatched up the book from under his chair, whispered a brief apology, held the image in his mind. He threw the book with all his strength, adding energy behind it, cutting air resistance in front and watched it nearly fly across the sky, farther than a human could throw, farther than a trebuchet could fling it.

He circled his hand, concentrating on the book, just the book, where it hit the water. He ripped the fabric of the world, a bigger tear than he’d ever made before. Water from their portion of the sea poured into the portal, yanking the ship with it. Caught in the unexpected and sudden current, the ship jerked hard to starboard, rocked back the other way, and then sluiced through the water, faster than any ship could move, falling through the portal.

The strength it took to hold the portal open, so large as it was, and so focused on such a tiny exit point dropped Stephen to his knees, sweating and panting for breath. The ship slid forward again, as the portal dropped behind him, cutting the anchor chain and leaving it behind.

“Tell me that was far enough,” he gasped.

“Are you _insane?_ ” Wong demanded. “What did you do to my book!”

Stephen managed a weak chuckle. “At heart, my friend, you are a librarian.” He couldn’t hear the siren’s call, and nothing was trying to climb over the keel full of sharp claws and hunger. And the deck looked very comfortable. Maybe he’d just lay down for a moment.

The Cloak pillowed itself under his head as Stephen pitched face-first onto the deck.

***

They spent two days making the other formulas as failed attempts and storing bottles of explosive liquid and fuel for the flame-gun, before Yinsen had a “breakthrough” and worked out the tincture that made the dragon iron clay into a workable substance.

It was astonishingly easy to shape, still the consistency and suppleness of clay, easily molded to the wooden tailor’s doll. The heat required to work it was intense, and Tony was beginning to hate it; the forge itself was so hot he could barely breathe, tapping into the volcano’s energy to keep the iron heated, but as soon as it cooled, the piece solidified and no further shaping could be wrought. Even reheating it was pointless.

Some few bars were wasted before Tony figured that out, much to Bakaar’s dismay. He expressed that dismay by shoving Tony face-first into his cooling barrel until he was nearly drowned.

It was during that episode that Tony learned that an enraged Spin could emit short blasts of power -- not enough to seriously hurt someone, but enough to shove a person or object several feet away. Bakaar was even less amused by that, but since the result was Tony collapsing to his hands and knees, coughing up water and too weak to stand, he opted to let it go, snapping out some order that Tony didn’t need Yinsen’s translation to know meant, “Don’t waste any more.”

It took him another two days to design the suit. He had to get each piece perfect on the first attempt, since there would be no reshaping the finished pieces. In the end, what he created looked not entirely unlike a medieval knight’s suit of armor, shielding him from head to toe in the thin, light dragon iron, except for the hole he’d left in the chestplate to expose Spin -- he wasn’t sure whether the dragon iron would hinder the ring’s powers, and he wasn’t about to risk another dunking with experimentation.

He was putting the finishing touches on the helmet, and considering if there was enough left over iron to fashion a weapon when Bakaar burst into the room.

“They are coming,” Yinsen translated. “There is no time to waste. Sunrise, tomorrow, you will brave the heart of the volcano and retrieve our prize.”

So that was a no on the weapon, then. Tony nodded shortly. He would have to put his plan into action even sooner than he’d thought.

Bakaar grabbed Yinsen’s arm and jerked him away from Tony.

“You no longer need my assistance, he says. My life rests on your continued good behavior, Tony Stark,” Yinsen said, calm and resigned, and then he quirked the smallest smile at Tony. “It will be well. I will see my family when we leave here.” Two of the pirates took up a stance inside the room that had been Tony’s home and workshop for the last week or longer, and Bakaar disappeared, dragging Yinsen with him.

Okay. He could do this. He could... He could totally do this. Two guards should be no trouble at all, with the suit on, and then he’d find Yinsen and get them off of this godforsaken island.

He waited until it was late, late enough for most of the pirates to be resting, or at least deep in their cups, and then began putting on the suit. “Final fitting,” he told the guards, who couldn’t understand him anyway. They were on high alert for a while, but then when Tony did nothing but pretend to stretch and practice movement in the armor, got bored again.

 _I certainly hope you’re ready to be helpful,_ he thought at Spin, hefting the “failed” tincture bottles.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, come here.” He beckoned them over. They brandished their weapons threateningly, and he held up his hands innocently. “No trouble,” he lied. “Just... come here. I need a hand.” He pointed at his chest, then at the pirates, and then made a completely incomprehensible hand motion.

Frowning, they inched closer. Tony pointed at his chest again. Stuck his finger into the gap and angled it downward. Kept beckoning them closer. He was only going to get one shot at this; he couldn’t waste it.

Finally, the guards were crowded close, peering into the hole.

 _Everything you’ve got, as hard as you can,_ Tony told Spin. _Now!_

The power blast knocked one pirate into the other and threw them both to the floor. Tony leaped forward, grabbed the pirate by the hair, and slammed his head hard into the ground. He kicked the other, and hoped like hell that the whole thing had been quiet enough not to alert the rest of the island.

Nothing happened. That was good, if not entirely expected. He wasn’t sure _what_ he'd expected, but to actually succeed wasn't really it.

Not much time to stand around feeling self congratulatory. Time to get to work.

He'd known the tunnels beyond his prison were twisty and confusing, a maze of passageways all alike. He was sure Bakaar had taken him along several different paths to keep him confused. But Tony had a good memory when he bothered to pay attention. And he'd had every reason to pay attention.

Two turns left, a right. Center passage. What little he knew of the left side from there were the pirates’ quarters and where they stored their stolen goods. Probably where he'd find Bakaar and hopefully Yinsen.

He tried to move as quietly as he could -- the dragon iron wasn’t as loud as steel, but it surely wasn’t stealthy.

Yinsen knew the plan. The separation had added a hiccup, but Tony thought he could trust Yinsen to guess that Tony would come for him.

Tony peered around a corner and into a hollowed-out room. It was full of crates and barrels. No Yinsen. Damn. The deeper into the pirates’ warren he had to go to find the man, the harder it would be to get back out again.

It was ill luck, that was all. Or a curse. Or something. He turned another corner and ran into a pair of pirates who'd slipped away for a tryst. He might even have been unnoticed -- they were intent on each other -- except the one tossed her hair out of her face and saw him.

She shrieked, and the other was already aiming his pistol.

The gun went off and Tony flinched involuntarily but the bullet merely bounced off the armor. It didn't even knock him back.

But it was loud.

 _Shit._ Tony abandoned all attempts at stealth. “ _Yinsen!_ ” he yelled. “Up and at ‘em! Time to go!” He threw one of the little vials of explosive at the pair of pirates.

It broke and, indeed, _exploded_ , a deafening burst and a gout of flame. Tony could only marvel at it; he had done the math, but seeing it in real life was so much more impressive.

No time to waste. “Yinsen!” he yelled again. “Hurry up!”

Somewhere to his right came a yell and a smashing sound. A moment later, a slim figure stumbled into the corridor. “Stark!” Yinsen, patting out bits of his shirt which appeared to be on fire, stumbled toward him.

“Oh, thank God,” Tony gasped. “Come on, we’ve got to go!” He turned back up the way he’d come. “This way!”

The sound of feet, moving, echoed along the walls, a tattoo of panic, and then Yinsen was at his side, putting one hand out--

The gunshot was very loud. Yinsen barely made a sound, staggered forward, hands grasping for Tony. He hitched in a breath and as he tried to talk, a stream of blood came out of his mouth. “Stark,” he gasped.

“No,” Tony said. “No, Yinsen. Hold on, you’ll be okay.” The world felt like it was slipping sideways.

“No, I won’t,” Yinsen said. He stumbled and fell. The whole front of his shirt was red with blood. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You go. Go on, get out. Stop them. Men like this… must never again hold the rings.”

“This isn’t the plan, Yinsen,” Tony said, dropping to his knees beside his friend. “Come on, get up. You’re going to go see your family again, remember?”

“This was always the plan, Stark,” Yinsen said. “My family is dead, and I am going to see them, now that I am free of here.” He raised a hand to Tony. “I want this. I want this.”

“But--” There was no time. The pirates were coming, and Yinsen was obviously not getting back up, no matter what Tony tried to tell himself. He squeezed Yinsen’s hand. “Thank you. Farewell.”

“Don’t… waste… your life,” Yinsen said. Yinsen took one more breath, like he had more to say, but his eyes rolled back, he exhaled, and went limp. For the first time since Tony had met the man, he looked at peace. Almost happy.

More running, yelling. Shots fired that pinged off Tony’s armor, almost not even worth noticing. Except that these were murdering bastards and they were within Tony’s grasp.

He lurched to his feet and charged toward them, flinging the explosive phials. When those ran out, Tony grabbed for the fire-wand. It would last only a few minutes, but that should be all he needed. It shot gouts of flame ahead of him, causing the pirates in its path to scream and run.

It took longer than Tony wanted to make his way out of the cave systems, weaving a path of destruction through the pirates as he went, and simultaneously, far less time than he expected. But finally, he was out, blue skies above him, the plume of the volcano marring the clouds like an inky stain. Their ship was anchored in the lagoon, rowboats dragged onto the shore. Behind him, Tony could hear shouting as the pirates regrouped for some sort of attack, probably.

 _Okay,_ he thought at the ring in his chest. _They tell me you can make me fly. That had better be true._ If it wasn’t, they’d eventually overwhelm him with sheer numbers. Even dragon iron could only do so much, for so long. _Let’s make with the flying now, please!_

The ring surged inside his chest, like someone squeezed his heart, and then, he was rising rapidly, shooting away from the ground like a rocket. The still air turned to rushing wind around him and the island grew vanishingly small until the pirates below were no more than tiny, insignificant dolls below.

All around him was water and sky, as far as he could see in-- no, wait, there was another island, a clump of trees and hills, a bare smudge on the horizon.

 _There,_ Tony told Spin, and tried to angle in that direction. He didn’t know what the limits to the ring’s power were, and this was no time to experiment with them. _We’re going there_.

The ring swooped him in that direction. Tony wasn’t flying like a bird, but more like one of those flying squirrels he’d read about, gliding as he tilted his body, held aloft by a power he didn’t understand.

It was exhilarating, amazing, beautiful -- and then  he was closing in on the other island, much, much faster than any ship could sail, faster than anything he’d ever even heard about, and…

… he didn’t know how to stop.

 _Wait, slow down, slow down!_ he thought frantically, but there was no slowing down. He was falling now, more than flying, and that beach was closing in. “Oh shiiiiiii--”

Tony collided with the sand and went rolling and tumbling across the beach, finally coming to a rest when he hit the trunk of a tree.

The ring’s presence in the back of Tony’s mind went cold and silent.


	4. Chapter 4

When Tony could breathe again, he sat up and looked around. There were no people rushing up to attack him, at least, which made this island infinitely better than the one he’d left.

Tony pulled himself to his feet, wincing at his bruises, but he didn’t seem to have sustained any more serious injuries, which was good.

The island had a thin strip of beach that gave way to dense jungle. Tony eyed the empty horizon for a long moment, then turned inward to explore. Maybe he’d luck across a settlement.

The island was smaller than it looked, a crescent shape that held a small lagoon and one freshwater stream that appeared to collect from rainwater on the single mountain. Well, “mountain” might have been pushing it. A hill with ambition, perhaps. There was a small colony of chattery monkeys. Tony discovered after scaring some of them for the first time that they were _howler_ monkeys; they set up a chorus of raucous screaming that echoed across the island for quite a bit longer than he thought was truly necessary.

Dozens of brilliant green and dull brown lizards also inhabited his island, some of which fled across the lagoon away from him by actually running along the water, as if they’d been blessed by a deity. There were birds galore, and a few turtles.

No people. No signs of civilization.

A monkey was inspecting the crater where Tony had landed as he made his way back to it, having circumnavigated the island. It shrieked in disgust as Tony approached, backing away and eventually disappearing into the trees.

_Spin?_ Tony thought, but the ring remained stubbornly silent.

He shed his helmet and wondered, _What now?_

He could probably start a fire with the remnants of the fire-wand -- but did he really want to? A tall enough plume of smoke would signal the pirates to his location. He’d found water, but he would need to eat eventually. He wondered if he could snare a couple of the birds, or maybe some of the lizards. And then he was back to needing a fire to cook them.

Fruit -- there had to be some kind of fruit on the island that he could eat. He tucked the helmet under his arm to use as a bucket and waded back into the trees. He found plenty of fruiting trees, though climbing them to get to the fruit was a problem. He had to settle for looking for low-hanging branches or scooping fruits up off the jungle floor where they’d fallen.

It took hours to get enough things to fill the helmet. By the time he made his way back to the crater, it was late in the day. He sat down on the sand to sample his findings and try to figure out what to do next.

The fruits ranged in taste from bitter and almost astringent to a rock-looking fruit that was sweet and a little woody, like an extra large pear. The tribe of monkeys gathered near the edge of the woods and watched him, occasionally hooting at each other. A few times they darted into his crater to grab a fruit or rind and race back to the woods. By the time full night had fallen, there were at least thirty of them in the trees.

And then, suddenly, there were none.

The jungle seemed oddly quiet when they’d gone. Disturbing. The monkeys had exhibited reasonable caution, but not outright fear of Tony, so what was bigger than he was, out there, that terrified them so much?

Not particularly reassured by the distance from the trees that he had that was clear beach, Tony stared into the jungle. A dark blanket of clouds covered the moon and stars, bringing a cold wind, and making it even harder to see. The ring in his chest glowed pale blue, but barely illuminated a ten foot circle around him.

Tony strained his eyes at the looming shadow of the jungle, almost willing the monkeys to return, annoying as they’d been. A hint of movement caught his attention -- but no, that was merely the wind stirring the leaves.

And then he saw another movement. It was hard to make out the shape in the darkness, but it was big, bigger than Tony would be on all fours.

Lightning flashed, and Tony caught a glimpse of an enormous cat, black all over, with eyes that seemed to glow in the reflected light. It crouched low to the ground, stalking.

It was darker than ever in the wake of the lightning’s brief flare. Thunder cracked, making Tony jump. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness again, the shape of the cat had disappeared, and he couldn’t find it again.

Then it started to rain in fat, heavy drops that clattered against the armor and plastered his hair to his scalp in a matter of moments.

Shelter, Tony thought wryly, should probably be his next task.

***

Two days of intense rain followed by relentless sunshine and no breeze made Stephen feel as though everything on the ship was moldy. Including him.

He’d heard the phrase _cabin fever_ before, even read it in some of his medical texts, but he’d never actually experienced it. Nor known anyone who was a current sufferer; the simple act of leaving a house to seek a doctor’s care was often enough to displace the symptoms.

He assumed, like many of the other descriptions of conditions of the mind, that the well-ordered scholar would not suffer from such a thing.

All of which was before he’d found himself at sea with only one companion, on a ship that was only twenty-five feet long, rocking along the waves hard enough to make reading unbearable, and desperately uncomfortable.

Even his bedroll was wet.

The Cloak of Levitation wrung itself out, then snapped a few times before settling, soggy, over Stephen’s shoulders with a _flump_ reminiscent of a sigh.

After perhaps two weeks of being in the same location, the two rings had split again, although the circles overlapped. Not too far away, Stephen decided, and he went onto the deck to see if he could spot any land, or other ships. By mid day, assuming Wong could keep conjuring his mock-wind.

“Want to go for a flight and scout ahead?” Stephen asked the Cloak, which squeezed his shoulders, one at a time. The Cloak’s equivalent of _if I must_. “You, my friend, remind me very much of my young cousin in his teen years, always sulky unless you are causing trouble.”

The Cloak retaliated for that remark by wrapping one end firmly around the deckrail. _No._

“Come on,” Stephen said. “I bet the air is cooler, and dryer, above. And we’ll get to see if there’s anything out there.”

Stephen had to exert the same sort of parental authority that his mother’s sister had used, in order to get the Cloak to actually Levitate -- its namesake, and Stephen would have thought the Cloak would enjoy going for a quick flight, but it lacked enthusiasm, pushing Stephen through the air with reluctance.

That said, he was able to get close enough to use a spyglass to locate two islands, one tiny, and the other much larger and housing an active volcano before the Cloak returned him to the ship, folded itself into his sea trunk and proceeded to sulk.

“What do you think, Wong? The larger, or the smaller first? As the rings have seperated, perhaps we can hope for two who fight each other. The enemy of my enemy may not be my friend, but certainly some discord in the ranks can be useful.”

“The smaller,” Wong said. “It will probably go faster.”

Stephen waved a hand, adjusting the sails with a thought. His fingers were already shaking; the moist air hadn’t done him any favors, even if the heat was beneficial. “I’m going to wrap my hands,” he decided. “And see if I can’t coax the stove-spirit back into being. I should like some tea before we fight. Would you care for a cup? Or breakfast.” He eyed Wong’s impassive face with exaggerated care. “You know… breakfast?”

Wong just looked at him.

“Tea? Eggs and toast? Bacon? You do eat, don’t you, Wong? I wonder if I could sling back to London from here, there was a wonderful pastry shop near Drury Lane. Do you think I could find the ship again?” Stephen shook his head. “I think I might actually commit murder for a cup of bread pudding.”

Wong shook his head. “We have sufficient food on board,” he said repressively. “Which way are we going?”

“That way,” Stephen said, pointing. “The smaller of the islands.” He stalked off, muttering to himself. “Sufficient food, my eyeball… pickles, rocks masquerading as biscuits, overcooked boiled eggs… oh, and more pickles. The Ancient One assured me that practitioners of the mystic arts weren’t _monks_ , but you wouldn’t know it by our lifestyle.”

“You are too attached to your pleasures,” Wong called after him, adjusting the wind and the sails.

“At least I have some pleasures,” Stephen yelled back. He ducked below decks in the (probably vain) hope of finding something to eat that wouldn’t break his teeth or be so utterly revolting as to make hunger seem the better option. There was, he thought, something fundamentally wrong with a man who could eat hardtack and pickles day in and day out without complaint.

Tea achieved, and his hardtack soaking in water to make a vile sort of porridge, he returned to the rail, watching the island coming into view. Without knowing who or what might be inhabiting it, there was no point in trying to sneak up on it.

Stephen pulled out his spyglass again, sweeping the shore for any signs of life.

And life there was. An odd, lopsided sort of lean-to shack had been constructed on the shore, apparently made out of enormous leaves and vines. Even as Stephen watched, a figure emerged, and made its way up the beach to disappear into the jungle.

Stephen snapped the spyglass closed. “Well, it looks like we may have a fight on our hands. At least one person, perhaps more.” He summoned the Cloak with a thought. “Weigh anchor, we’ll go in and flank them. Take a prisoner, we may get valued information.”

The anchor went into the water with a dull splash, bringing the boat to a stop just at the mouth of the lagoon.

The Cloak lifted Stephen to hover, flapping dramatically in a non-existent breeze. His fingers came alive with mystical energy, orange of defense, green and purple for weapons. Red for nets.

How he’d nearly been executed for witchery when he practiced none and the real thing was so evident and ostentatious, Stephen would never understand.

“Let’s go,” he said.

***

When Tony emerged from his crude shelter, he had nothing in mind but hunting down food for the day, trying yet again to waken the dormant Spin, maybe doing something to improve his little hut. But as his eyes swept the horizon and saw sails, all that went out of his head.

At first he was sure it was the pirates, come to find him. But the mast of the approaching ship flew no colors, not even a pirate’s black. Which meant it could be anyone. Tony headed into the jungle. He’d found rocks there of volcanic glass that, shattered, produced an edge nearly as sharp as a good knife, if brittle and delicate. It wasn’t anything like a sword in his hand or a good pistol, but he would fight, if it came to it.

The ship wasn’t much closer when he came back out to the beach, makeshift weapons in his hands, so he began donning the dragon iron armor. No pirate or smuggler was going to take him by surprise.

The ship shuddered to a halt, just outside the lagoon. He expected a rowboat to make an appearance, but instead two figures leapt from the side of the ship. Neither plummeted into the sea. The first hovered there, a cape flapping out behind him like a breeze, and he simply floated closer. The other was spinning bright colored disks between his hands and throwing them in front of his feet, using them like stepping stones made from cloud and sunlight.

Given everything Tony had been through in the last few weeks, he would have thought he’d been over being awed.

Or frightened.

It seemed he had an endless well of those feelings, however. He clenched his rock tighter, though what good it would do against creatures like these was a question.

There was no doubt that they’d seen him, though, so he braced his feet and prepared to meet them head-on. _Now would be a good time for you to wake the hell up,_ he threw at Spin.

The ring, which had been resting, still and sleepy in his chest, flared to life with eagerness, almost like a beacon.

The cape-wearing man reached the shore, drawing up more runes, stretching beams of light and archaic glowing numbers between his hands to form a ghostly shield. “That’s enough of that, ring-bearer,” he said. “Surrender to the authority of the Sorcerer Supreme, and you will not be harmed.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Tony said. “This is my island. You can just turn around and get back on your boat and get the hell out of here.” His voice remained steady and firm, for all his words were sheer bravado.

“You’re hardly in a position to make demands,” Cape-Man said. He dropped lightly onto the sand, spreading his hands in a weaving pattern. He pulled green, glowing sigils from nothingness and lashed them out like a whip, curling in the air near Tony, threateningly. “We will not allow the ring to remain in the hands of the unworthy. Surrender it. There is no need to fight, and nothing good will come of owning such a thing. That is strife and a burden you do not want, friend.”

Tony snorted. “Except my continued existence,” he muttered. “But hey, good news! It’s not in my hands. So there’s nothing for you to worry about. You can just run along.”

“Do you honestly think that will work?” the man asked. He turned to his companion, a bald, heavy set man wearing dark red ceremonial garb and wielding a blade of blueish light. “Does anyone ever really think that will work? Sure, come on, Wong, let’s just get back on the ship, let the villain win the day. ‘Yes, that sounds like a good plan, Stephen, let’s go home.’”

“I don’t sound like that,” the other man -- Wong? -- said. He didn’t take his eyes off Tony, though.

Tony huffed. “How did I get to be the villain of this piece?” he wondered. “I’m not doing anything remotely villainous, here. You want villains, you want the next island over. Those Ten Rings guys, they’re villains.”

The green whip slithered through the air again, crackled, and wrapped around Tony’s waist, yanking him forward several steps. Despite its make, it felt ordinary enough, which was almost more unnerving than if it had burned like acid. “We’ll deal with them soon enough,” the man -- Stephen, apparently -- said. “But first, your ring, if you please.”

Spin did not, apparently, like being manhandled. Or whip-handled, as the case happened. Tony’s heart pounded in his temples and his chest ached with the sudden influx of power. Spin arched him backward, like pulling a thread through his heart, and a beam of blue light burst out, severing the whip and knocking Stephen over, rolling him through the beach and all the way to the water’s edge where he struggled to get back to his feet.

“Is it cliche to say ‘over my dead body’? I feel like that would be cliche. If also particularly accurate.” It was worrying, a little, that these two didn’t seem at all concerned about the possibility of an entire island full of pirates. Tony was only one man. But he had no intention of dying. Especially not now that Spin had finally woken up again and might be amenable to helping him get _off_ this island.

“I’m getting very tired of being knocked over,” Stephen said, brushing off the blue tunic, scattering sand all over the place. “And the Cloak of Levitation does not like to be washed. Have a care, or I will have one for you.” Another gesture, and suddenly the man had four arms, each held in a slightly different position. And then eight, twelve, twenty--

He snapped his fingers and a dozen versions of the same man separated, forming a circle around Tony. “Are you wearing it around your neck?” One of them darted in, a clumsy hand brushed over the back of Tony’s neck, as if seeking a thong or chain.

Tony ducked away from that one, only to find himself faced with another. He summoned Spin’s energy and pushed that one away. “Get off me!” he snapped.

“Wong, could you please stop standing around, impersonating local decor?” One of them demanded, and then a dozen tendrils of light exploded around Tony, holding him stretched and splayed. “Get the ring!”

Tony struggled like a fly caught in a spider’s web, but Wong came forward without so much as a flinch away from Tony’s flailing. He put a hand on Tony’s chest, just over Spin, then took a step back, eyes widening in shock. “He’s not wearing it. It’s _in_ him.”

The mystical ropes disappeared as Stephen collapsed back into himself in surprise. When there was only one left, he tipped his head to one side. “What did you do, you idiot, swallow it?”

“No,” Tony said. “I’d been wounded. The alchemist put the ring there to save my life.” Might as well tell the truth.

Stephen blinked, shook his head as if to clear it. “How-- would that work, Wong? I… using a major mystical artifact like a bandage? They can be used to _heal_? Astonishing, I thought their power destructive and malignant only. And how are we supposed to recover the ring now?” He took another step toward Tony, holding out his hand imploringly.

Stephen's hands were curled, gnarled, the knuckles bent awkwardly and the fingers apparently couldn’t be straightened, covered in scars. When he noticed Tony looking, he weakly curled his hand into a fist and tucked it at his side.

“I’m pretty sure the pirates were going to kill me and pry it out of my chest,” Tony said. “As soon as I did their dirty work for them. What do you even want it for, if you think it’s such a burden?”

“It is a burden,” Stephen said. “And not one I am willing to take up. I am already keeper of a relic of great power. Our intent is to take the rings for safe keeping, that they might never fall into the hands of another Mandarin. You’re _not_ of the Ten Rings. Are you?”

“No. The Ten Rings destroyed my ship, kidnapped me. I escaped and ended up here.” Tony hesitated. “They have another ring, on their island.”

“Wong, I am willing to entertain suggestions,” Stephen said. “Is there a way to safely remove the ring from Mr. -- what is your name, anyway?”

“Stark. Tony Stark.” Maybe if the pair thought they could ransom him, they’d skip over killing him.

Stephen put one hand over his heart and gave Tony a little bow. “Doctor Strange,” he said.

“Strangely apt,” Tony quipped. “They offer scholarly degrees in hocus-pocus, now? Who’s your friend? Professor? Headmaster?”

“Just Wong,” Wong said impassively.

Tony eyed the stocky Chinese man. “What, he gets a fancy title and you don’t? That’s just Wong.”

Wong didn’t laugh, but Tony could sense that he wanted to. A little bit.

Strange sighed, ignoring Tony’s remarks. “What are we going to do with Mr. Stark, Wong? Since killing him is not an option.”

Wong’s face screwed up like he was chewing on a lemon. “We could take him with us.”

“I’m not certain we have a choice,” Strange said. “We’re not the only ones seeking the ring,” he added, turning back to Tony. “Masters of the mystic arts, mercenaries, thieves, they will come for you, until all ten rings are reunited. Impressive as a master of one ring is, eventually you will face those who have taken up two, or even more. I don’t wish to take prisoners, so I ask, will you come willingly, that we might protect the ring you carry?”

“And what’s your plan for me, when you’ve got all the other rings?” Tony wondered.

“Once we have the other nine secured, one ring, in the hands of a mere mortal, will not, perhaps, be so bad,” Strange suggested. “You can live out your life, and we will watch over you. On your death, someone will be sent to collect the last ring. Which will be stored, in a place of great security and shrouded in mystery, with its brethren.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Tony took off the helmet, though. They weren’t going to kill him immediately, even if they were lying about the rest of it, and it was hot.

“The Sorcerers of Kamar-Taj,” Strange said. “Over whom I hold some small authority, as the Sorcerer Supreme, although only recently of that title. We are few, but powerful. If you reside in one of the three major cities, it will be even easier to protect you: Hong Kong, London, or New York. We have Sanctums there, and keep many trainees to assist the Guardians.”

“Well, our headquarters is in New York, and we have an office in London,” Tony said. “So that’s not a problem.” Tony looked from Strange to Wong and back, then sighed. “All right, fine. Let’s go do this.”

Strange turned toward the ship, moving his hand in a circle. Orange light followed that circle until a ring of fire surrounded the man’s hand. With a wet, tearing around, the sky seemed to crack and peel back until there was a hole, somewhat larger than a man, that flickered into being. Through the framed fire was a ship’s deck, the sea beyond. “Our ship. Welcome aboard, Mr. Stark. Step through, if you please.”

Tony took a tighter grip on his helmet, gave one last look around the beach -- as if he could have anything of value to leave behind -- and then took a breath and stepped through the portal.


	5. Chapter 5

Once they were all aboard the ship, in very close quarters, it was difficult to avoid noticing just how much Mr. Stark looked both starved and abused. Under the knight’s helmet -- and where, exactly, Stephen wondered, had he come across a full set of plate mail? -- the man had a black eye and a cut near one temple. His hair was filthy, matted with blood and dirt, and he had a scruff of beard that more resembled a small mammal than anything meant to adorn a human face.

Stephen wrinkled his nose, exchanged a glance with Wong. He wanted a private word with his second anyway. Stephen wasn’t too worried about the chances of betrayal; wards and spells would keep them both safe at night. Although he wondered about the sleeping arrangements, as they had not originally intended for it to be but the two of them. Supplies would need to be restocked, as well.

Wong pointed down the stair to the bunks. “The bathing room’s down there,” he told Mr. Stark. “You smell.”

Mr. Stark raised his eyebrows at Wong, but looked amused. “I’m not surprised. The closest I’ve come to a bath in weeks was getting caught in a rainstorm.” He glanced between them, then nodded. “I’ll just... go see to that, shall I?” He made his way down the stairs with more grace than Stephen would have imagined possible, considering his armor.

Stephen watched until he was out of sight; there was something oddly compelling about the man, defiant as a mundane, even in the face of two powerful sorcerers. “I do believe the Ancient One is still around and that she is having a powerful jest at my expense.”

“Unlikely.” Wong made his way over to the mast and started resetting the sails so they could change course.

“It disturbs me, Wong, that with such a vast amount of experience that you have with the mystical arts, you seem to have misplaced a sense of whimsy, the wide eyes of wonderment. And do you never laugh? People used to tell me I was funny,” Stephen said.

“I laugh,” Wong said. “When something is funny. Maybe those people were just sucking up to you.”

“Well, I needn’t worry that you will do that,” Stephen said with a sigh. It might be nice to have someone else around, someone whose good opinion he might hope to gain. “Set wards over the sleeping rooms, and find a place for Mr. Stark. We may have no choice to let him continue with us, but that’s no reason to needlessly risk our safety. And check our location; where is the nearest port where we might resupply? A third mouth will go through our supplies in short order.”

“At last, something like sense.” Wong waved Stephen off and turned his attention back to the rigging.

“I’m going to go speak with our guest, see what he knows of this other island, the other ring.” He flipped the Cloak over his shoulder and went below.

He might, he later reflected, have given Mr. Stark a little more time in the bathing room, before opening the door and striding in, intent on gathering information.

“Christ!” Mr. Stark yelped, and snatched at the towel he’d left on the counter to cover himself. He was sitting in the little half-tub they used for bathing, wet skin liberally lathered with soap. “What the hell!”

Stephen meant to apologize and back out of the room, he really did, but then he caught sight of the glowing form of the ring inside Mr. Stark’s chest, stretched wide, a thin loop about the size of an apple. The skin around it was horrifically scarred, although the scars looked old, like an accident that might have happened a dozen years ago or more. The light pulsed in time with the man’s heart, somehow soothing. As if it were _comforting_ him.

“Fascinating,” Stephen said, and instead of leaving the room, he swept within, dropping to one knee next to the tub. “If the rings can heal at such a rate, no wonder defeating the former Mandarin was such a trial. How long ago did this happen? It couldn’t have been more than a season; we only destroyed him, then, at great cost. But these scars look old, even older than my own.” He stretched out a hand, wanting to touch it, to see if it was warm or cool, if he could get a sense of its aura.

“Hey!” Mr. Stark knocked Stephen’s hand away. “Do you _mind?_ ”

“You needn’t worry,” Stephen said. “It’s professional curiosity. I’m a doctor.” Well, he had been, at one point, and the knowledge he’d gained hadn’t left him just because he no longer took patients. “Which ring is it, do you know? I’m told the rings have a form of sentience, can you communicate with it? Is your skin temperature at the insertion site lower or higher than your base?” Utterly compelled, he reached for it again, wanting to test the skin elasticity, to feel if the light flickers had an accompanying beat, like a heart, or if it was entirely still inside the man’s body.

Mr. Stark smacked his hand away again, a little more sharply this time. “I’m not some corpse in an operating theater for you to poke at your leisure,” he said crossly.

“No, of course not,” Stephen said. He dropped his gaze for a moment, and happened to see a large expanse of pale, muscular thigh, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was, in fact, kneeling rather close to a naked man who had not invited him to do so. “My apologies, Mr. Stark, I… rather… get carried away sometimes. I’ll… I shall allow you to finish your bath, of course, and then, perhaps you might speak with me about the other island, and the ring, and what challenges we might face.”

He stood up hastily and turned to leave. He took two steps and the Cloak dragged him backward a few feet, his shoes scraping against the floor, before the Cloak snatched the towel away from Mr. Stark and wrung it out over Stephen’s hair before letting him walk away.

Mr. Stark’s startled laughter followed him back up the stairs.

“I’m unaware of when I asked for your opinion,” Stephen told it. He used one corner of the Cloak to wipe off his face full of lukewarm, soapy water. “And thank you, I had no need for excessive dignity.” He looked back over his shoulder at the door, not quite closed in his haste, and sighed. The man was fascinating, and Stephen was going to get his hands on him for an examination.

Eventually.

***

Tony eventually finished cleaning and shaving, and it was a shame he had no clothes to put on other than the tattered, stained ones he’d been wearing for weeks now (and the armor, of course), but being able to clean up and shave had brought him at least halfway to human again.

He supposed he would have to face his -- rescuers? kidnappers? guardians? -- again sooner or later, so he squared his shoulders and went back up above decks.

He stopped, just as he reached the main deck, to look around him at the ship itself.

It was... hardly deserving of the name. Whole sections of the railing showed signs of rot, the wheel spun free at the helm, the hull itself looked like it had been hastily cobbled together from three different ships, and the rigging looked like it had been strung by the howler monkeys from Tony’s island. “What... what the hell kind of boat _is_ this?” he demanded.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the shipyard where it was first fitted,” Strange said. “We pulled it out of the Bristol Channel, near Cardiff. I think it was once part of the privateer Francis Drake’s fleet.”

“It’s a _mess,_ ” Tony complained. “Look at that hull!” He pointed. “It’s like whoever built this thing wanted to sail around the world forever turning to starboard. And _this!_ ” He marched over to the railing and put his foot against it. When he leaned, it creaked ominously. “Half your deck is rotting! And don’t even get me _started_ on whatever you’ve done to the poor sails!” He pointed at the helm. “And who’s even _steering_? Where’s the rest of your crew?”

“We’re it,” Strange said. “The hosts of Hoggoth utilize the wind and sails to direct the craft, summoned and compelled by myself. Wong has been charged with keeping the decks intact, aided by a little pitch and elbow grease. It only needs to float, and we can sail it.” Strange sounded quite proud of himself, like this aquatic nightmare was some sort of accomplishment.

Wong nodded, as if he _agreed_. “The spells we’re using could make a rock float.”

“Then you might as well be sailing a castle!” Tony said, exasperated. “I don’t care what kind of mumbo jumbo wizardry you’ve got going for you, it’s still got to be _easier_ to make the thing move if you adhere to a modicum of scientific principle! This isn’t even some compromise for the sake of comfort!”

“I’m fairly certain that even the Scots would object if we liberated one of their castles,” Strange said. “And a floating building would draw undue attention. I’ve been tried for witchcraft once before--” He held out his hands as an example. “--before I even learned a speck of magic existed in the world. They’d not so easily take me now, but then that would leave hundreds dead and wounded for being nothing more than simple and afraid. The ship serves its purpose, and I have no working knowledge of shipwrighting to improve it.”

He hadn’t actually meant that they should sail a damned castle. Tony threw his hands up into the air. “Okay, but I want you to know, this is a terrible ship. At least let me properly set the sails.”

Strange exchanged a glance with Wong, and then shrugged. “If it amuses you to do so,” he said. “I was hoping you would share with us your knowledge of the western island. And any dangers you have encountered in these waters. Anything you can tell us might assist.”

Tony grunted and looked toward the western horizon. The pirates’ island wasn’t visible yet, but it would be. “It’s a volcano,” he said. “An active one. They live in caves under it. The ring is at the center of the caves, where it’s too hot for a man to survive. I wasn’t allowed to see much else. They kept me in the smithy, working on their dragon iron.”

“Very well,” Strange said. “There are incantations that will protect us from the heat and toxic gases that are prevalent in most volcanic locations. I don’t willingly bring others into danger, if I can help it. I took a vow to do no harm, and yet the world is no place for the pacifist. I have been forced to-- well I have considered it as an amputation, cutting away the limb, that the body might survive. But I would not bring this on another, without… Will you aid us, and if so, will you try to prevent the loss of life, where it is possible?”

Interesting that the man hadn’t reacted to the mention of dragon iron -- but who knew? Maybe actual _sorcerers_ had never lost the art in the first place. “Anyone who tries to kill me is someone I’m going to kill right back,” Tony told Strange seriously. “That includes their captain, Bakaar, who murdered my ship’s captain in front of me, shot at me, kidnapped me, and -- as far as I know -- left my ship stranded without water or sails. If he didn’t burn the hull to the waterline.” A wave of grief washed through him, making his anger sharper and brighter. “If you try to stop me from killing him, we’re going to have a disagreement.”

“It is not for his sake,” Strange said, “but your own. Murder is a bridge, from which you can never return. It leaves a mark on a man… and if it fades, then a good man falls, and we are left with something else. I… would not ask you to take up that guilt.” Strange sighed. “We are but tiny and insignificant specks in an uncaring universe, perhaps. But sacrificing lives for some greater good… I became a doctor to save lives, not to take them.”

“Then I can see how you’d shy away from the thought,” Tony allowed. “But I’m a weaponsmith. I’ve made murder my particular companion since I was a boy of nine. Though I must admit I don’t believe I’ve _personally_ killed anyone. Though it’s hard to know for certain; my escape was a bit muddled.”

Strange gave him a long, steady look. “We’ll do our best to make sure you don’t have to make that choice.” He went to the rail of the ship and looked over the side, the cape that hovered around him took itself off his shoulders and set itself at the rail next to him, like a friend offering a comforting presence.

Tony was used to people disliking him, but it was never easy. “Reconsidering just yanking the ring out of my chest, are you?” He threw on a devil-may-care grin and turned his attention to the mess that had been made of the rigging. He was no experienced sailor, but he’d seen the way they _ought_ to look often enough to be able to fix it. He went to the mast and caught hold of the rope ladder.

Strange looked up after him. “If you insist on trying to get yourself killed, Mr. Stark, I’ll stay out of your way.” The sorcerer watched him laboring in the rigging for quite some time, as if Tony was a play being performed, or an opera on stage, something of mild amusement and interest, but ultimately unimportant.

Tony was aware of Strange’s attention for a while, but forgot about it soon enough as he tried desperately to untangle the nonsense that they’d made of the ropes. Expert sorcerers, they might be, but they had no idea whatsoever how to handle a rope. He had to climb up to the very top of the mast to restring one of the pulleys.

At last, he got the topsheet correctly rigged, and had started to climb down to work on the main sheet when the crossbar he was standing on dipped ominously, and the wood of the mast let out a terrible, grinding creak. Before Tony could scramble for a rope, before he could even _curse_ , the mast gave way, toppling over in a stately lunge.

The rotten deck railing splintered as the crossbar hit it, jolting Tony hard enough to loosen his grip, and he fell--

A blur of heavy crimson fabric swirled in front of him, and Tony found himself being snagged around the waist and turned, midair, a half bowl of greenish light surrounding them as the wooden bits rained off the shield and onto the deck. Strange was holding him, one arm around Tony’s shoulder, his hand cupping the back of Tony’s head, the other around his waist. Strange was practically nose-to-nose with him, his breath a warm puff against Tony’s cheek. “If you wish to tell me you told me so, on the condition of the ship, I suggest you wait until I’ve put you safely back on the deck.”

“What happened to not getting in the way of killing myself?” Tony wondered, skin still shivering with the adrenaline of fear.

The cape fluttered around them, and then slowly lowered them to the deck. “I don’t feel like washing your blood off my ship, Mr. Stark,” Strange said. Strange’s arms were shaking with the effort of holding Tony up, and when his feet touched the ground, he was released abruptly, Strange pulling his hands in close to his own chest with a gasp.

“Are you hurt?” Tony asked.

“An old wound,” Strange said. “There is always some pain; sudden pressure, or weather, sometimes, makes them ache. There is nothing that will change that. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Stark, I am going to go below and wrap them. Sometimes it helps.”

Tony watched him go with a sense of confusion. He glanced at Wong, who was standing exactly where he’d been standing for the last half hour. “I still don’t understand why he bothered saving me,” he said, conversationally.

“You haven’t tried,” Wong countered.


	6. Chapter 6

“Mr. Stark,” Stephen called, not bothering to raise his voice at all, but letting his magic whisper it through the wood in the ship, “if I might trouble you for an opinion, on deck?”

He stared out at the pirate’s island. Whatever Mr. Stark had said about it before, the place looked practically abandoned. The smoke from gutted fires leaked out of caverns and there were tents pitched just below the trees. The caverns, perhaps, had become uninhabitable in the wake of Mr. Stark’s escape.

There were, however, several cannons lining the low wall at the edge of the high tide marker, and the pirate’s ship itself had a good dozen more peering ominously from the starboard side. Stephen assumed there was a matched set to port. The questions were as such: was the ship manned, and in either case, what was the range on guns of that caliber.

Mr. Stark made his way up onto the deck, dressed in his odd armor. He came straight to Stephen’s side and peered across the water at the island. “They must be getting desperate,” he said after a moment, “with neither alchemist nor smith left. And they let this slip through their fingers.” He tapped his fingers against his chest in indication.

“So you think we’re clear of their range, at this remove? I intend to take the fight to them, as much as can be, but still, it would be good to have a ship to return to,” Stephen said. “You are the resident expert on weapons of war.”

Mr. Stark grunted and took the spyglass from Stephen’s hand. “They _might_ be able to get their balls out this far, if they have someone clever computing the angles. But exceeding their range this far is going to make their accuracy worthless. And they don’t have the resources to just blanket the area.” He made another long, slow sweep of the shore before giving the glass back to Stephen. “And if they sink this boat, by sheer chance, we can just take theirs, right?”

“Assuming their ill-spirited endeavors have not cursed the very planks that make up the deck, yes, I suppose we might,” Stephen said. He shuddered. “Seems a low bargain, though, like eating a rat’s leftovers. Stealing from pirates.”

“At least their ship is actually seaworthy,” Mr. Stark quipped. “What’ve you got in mind as far as strategy goes, here?”

Stephen didn’t bother to look at Wong, who was already formulating some, no doubt, brilliant strategy. “I tend to be a little more reactionary in a combat situation. My friend Mordo used to despair of it, that I would never learn to approach battle as anything more than the most necessary of evils.” Stephen sighed. Even now, he still missed Karl; there was an ache in his chest, a hole that the man had left when he’d abandoned the Sanctuary. Lost to despair and disappointed hopes, Stephen supposed.

“The most straightforward plan of attack: attack,” Mr. Stark observed, a touch wryly. He eyed the shoreline again. “If you want to talk about necessary evils, see what you can do about destroying the base supports for those cannons. Without their supports, they can’t move to aim.”

That was, at least, something Stephen could do with a clear conscience. Destroying weapons was much easier than killing people. _Do no harm._ Wong thought him an idiot, no doubt. Or a coward. Or squeamish. Hah. Stephen would like to see Wong remove a child’s ruptured spleen without turning a hair, or amputate a rotted limb. Stephen’s hands had been given to him to heal; just because they were no longer functional didn’t mean he had to turn his back on everything he believed in.

“The most important thing to remember,” Wong said, looking ponderous and zen as always, “is that we must kill them. And take care not to die, ourselves.”

Mr. Stark turned to Wong with a raised eyebrow. “So I take you you don’t subscribe to the good doctor’s views on the taking of life?”

Wong shook his head. “There are many things worse than death. It is only a small change. I have changed a man from being alive, to being dead. The stuff of his body and spirit still exist -- a heaven or hell awaits. The earth claims his body. There are magics out there which seek to rip us from the very fabric of space and time. These must be stopped.”

“Wong made his peace with it,” Stephen said. “Long before I sought to learn. And he has a dangerous job. He can, perhaps, be forgiven for being somewhat bloodthirsty.”

“Yeah? What’s Wong’s job?” Mr. Stark asked.

Wong looked over at Mr. Stark, his face at its most humorless and impassive. “Librarian.”

Mr. Stark sputtered out a laugh that died as neither Stephen nor Wong joined in. “You’re... not kidding.”

“Somewhere in the last several decades, Wong lost his sense of humor,” Stephen said. He rolled his shoulders in a little dance, shifting his balance. It helped loosen him up, relax the fear that always taunted him at such moments. “I look forward to the day he finds it again. Although perhaps it will be too late for me, as mine will have atrophied away in the meanwhile.”

The pirates, perhaps, were bored with watching them just outside the harbor. They’d offered no flag nor greeting, and were, in fact, just sitting there. Ducks, as it were.

The cannon went off with a thunderous report, throwing itself backward in the sand several feet with the recoil. “I do believe we’re about to begin, then,” Stephen said. He waved a hand at the incoming cannonball and it exploded, mid-air, into a cloud of bees. With an idle flick, Stephen sent them back toward the pirates.

“Well, that’s handy,” Mr. Stark remarked, looking interested. “How are we going to get over there?”

“Do you trust me?”

Mr. Stark’s gaze turned from the pirate’s cove to look Stephen over, thoroughly, if not quite leisurely. “Do I have a choice?”

“Certainly,” Stephen said. “If you’re not offering violence, I won’t meet you with any. However, if you’d like to join us for the party on the beach, take off your gauntlet and give me your hand.”

“Why Doctor,” Mr. Stark said, “we’ve not even discussed my dowry!” But he stripped off his gauntlet and reached out his bare hand. “If this kills me, I’m going to haunt you,” he threatened idly.

“Hmm,” Stephen answered. “I have yet to actually meet a spirit, so I look forward to it.” He linked his fingers with Mr. Stark’s, idly noting how very warm the man’s hand was, and how strong his fingers. The sides and tips were rough and calloused. A good sort of hand, Stephen thought. Not like his own had been, and certainly nothing like they were now. His bones were soothed, just a little, by the feel of Mr. Stark’s hand in his.

The Cloak flared out behind them both and lifted them into the air. Stephen wasn’t so much carrying Mr. Stark as balancing them as the Cloak did the work. “Flying may well be my favorite form of magic,” Stephen admitted. “Wong, let’s go.”

Wong grunted in reply and threw down a magical stepping-stone, his preferred method of crossing relatively short distances over water.

The Cloak lifted Stephen higher, and Mr. Stark cursed in a wondering sort of voice, and his hand gripped Stephen’s a little more tightly. “See?” he murmured. “This is how it ought to work.”

Once they were steady and stable, Stephen focused his thoughts on the beach where the cannonade was prepping its rounds. It was in moments like these that he found himself working with the Cloak, some sort of primitive telepathy, a symbiotic relationship. The Cloak swooped them toward the shore like a bird of prey.

The pirate-engineers shouted and adjusted the cannons, and then the air was filled with flying lead. Scattershot, this time.

Stephen yelled and sucked in power, conjuring a shield and widening it impossibly thin to cover them both. The fragments struck and some tore ragged holes in Stephen’s shield, but it was enough to slow the velocity and to rob the missiles of anything more deadly than being showered with a handful of pebbles. Nevertheless, Stephen flinched away from the missiles, covered his eyes with his free hand.

Slashed out with a jolt of will, curling green light down to wrap around one of the cannons and yank it through the supports and burying it in the sand. “Get ready, Mr. Stark,” he yelled. “I shall place you just beyond them, where you can cause what damage you will.”

***

Whatever he might have said about being a pacifist and a reactionary, Strange did, apparently, know something about tactics, because he picked a well defensible position to drop Tony in, just behind some large boulders, on the top of a hill. Any pirates who chose to assault Tony’s position were going to have to climb up a sandy, unstable buff, and they’d be visible the whole time. A moment later, the good doctor tore a rift into the sky, yanked, and dropped a bow and a quiver of arrows that looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a battle behind Tony’s rock.

“Be careful with those, Mr. Stark, and do not touch the arrowheads,” Strange bellowed, and then swooped away, like some sort of exotic bird of paradise, red cloak fluttering behind him.

Well, that was just entirely unfair, since now Tony wanted to know _why_ he shouldn’t touch the arrowheads. They didn’t look poisoned, or even particularly sharp.

But he supposed they’d get the job done. If he could aim properly, anyway. He hadn’t used a bow in years, being much more interested in guns and cannons and other such explosive devices. He picked up the bow and tested its pull, then slung the quiver over his shoulder, one eye on the milling pirates, who were having some difficulty making up their minds which direction to charge.

Wong reached the shore and waded into a knot of them. His magic had stretched out into what looked like a quarterstaff, and was industriously blocking vicious sabre swings and knocking pirates down. Wong’s expression hadn’t changed at all. Tony wondered if the man even _had_ emotions. But he was certainly very efficient about the mayhem he was causing.

Another bunch of the pirates was charging up the bluff toward Tony now, so he laid an arrow across the bowstring and took aim. The first one went wide, dropping harmlessly into the sand twenty feet or so beyond its target. Tony thought the second would miss, too, but it knocked into the pirate’s shoulder and bowled her over. She didn’t get back up, which was a little surprising, considering the arrow hadn’t hit anything vital.

Don’t touch the arrowheads. Right.

Tony drew another arrow, sighting down the shaft toward the pirate in the lead, and let fly. This time, when the arrow stuck, the pirate wobbled, then fell over and-- turned into a pig?

Tony stared in shock. Luckily, so did several of the pirates. The pig didn’t seem interested in continuing the charge; it started snuffling at a tuft of grass.

One of the pirates yelled something to the others that Tony couldn’t understand. The tone was unmistakable, though -- something like, “Shoot the bastard!”

Sure enough, the pirates who had pistols -- about half of them -- drew their weapons. Tony slammed his faceplate shut and grinned wildly. He doubted anything smaller than a three-pound cannonball could damage him through the dragon iron. He drew another arrow and aimed at the next closest pirate, loosing just as the first pistol fired.

Half the shots missed him entirely; the other half pinged off his armor like so many pebbles. This arrow, when it struck its target, turned the pirate stiff as a board; they toppled over and rolled halfway back down the bluff.

Tony glanced back at Wong to make sure he was still holding his own -- he was -- and then checked Strange’s progress with the cannonade.

Strange was hampered by his apparent reluctance to hurt anyone; nearly a dozen pirates were levitated around him like wayward planets, spinning as they rotated around him. This unfortunately, did not prevent one of them from getting a lucky -- and probably entirely accidental -- hit in. The pirate’s short, spiked club was flailing wildly, and he struck Strange in the shoulder, tearing the woolen shirt he wore. Blood splattered out and Strange yelled.

The Cloak apparently did not share Strange’s views on pacifism. Tony hadn’t decided before that point if it was an extension of Strange’s will, or had a personality and goals of its own, but it took the attack on its master as a personal affront, leaping off Strange’s back and wrapping itself firmly around the attacker’s head. It threw the pirate to the ground several times, slamming it full force into the sand, into the grass, and then against the wreck of the cannon until the pirate stopped moving entirely.

The Cloak unwrapped itself from the body and spread out like an angry, vengeful ghost. _Go ahead,_ it seemed to threaten. _Hurt him again, I dare you._

Tony would not have called the Ten Rings much of anything flattering, but cowardly was not on his list of insults.

Still, two of them who were circling Strange took one look at the remains of their cohort and the extremely loyal outerwear and decided that discretion might be the better part of living to fight another day.

Mixed metaphor. Tony’s tutors would have been horrified.

Reassured that his allies were still fighting, Tony went back to his own battle, drawing and loosing with a steady sort of rhythm that was almost hypnotic. Each arrow that struck did something different, incapacitating the pirates without apparently harming them, though quite a few were turned into animals. By the time they’d decided Tony’s position was too difficult to charge, he was in more danger of being accidentally trampled by livestock than sliced open on a cutlass.

Strange finished with the cannonade, throwing most of the guns wholesale into the cove with an angry wave of his hand. Tony wasn’t sure what the foot-pounds energy to magic ratio was, but each spell cast seemed to bear a cost against Strange, and by the time he was done with the guns, he was staggering with apparent exhaustion. Three pirates took advantage and were pressing in hard, shooting at him and forcing him to keep his shields up.

Strange made an odd gesture and fell backward--

\--into a portal that opened just in front of Tony.

“You okay, Doc?” Tony asked. He dropped to one knee to check Strange’s wound.

“I admit that I have had better mornings,” Strange said. “And all this, without even a decent breakfast. I wish to register a change of career choice.” His eyes were wide, and not focusing particularly well. It was not, perhaps, the best time for Tony to be noticing that Strange’s eyes were a lovely shade of marine blue, with deep green highlights.

“We’ll get right on that,” Tony promised. He popped up to check on Wong -- steadily making his way toward Tony and Strange, still apparently uninjured -- then ducked back down to pull Strange’s shirt away from his shoulder. “Wow, that’s an impressive bruise. Can you move your arm?”

“It’s not broken,” Strange grated between clenched teeth, “but it might be dislocated. The cannonade is down, call for their surrender and we will show mercy.”

“I don’t know how merciful I’m feeling right now,” Tony said, but he stood up, drew another arrow in case someone decided to do something stupid, and yelled, “Surrender now, and we’ll let you live!”

Wong punctuated that by whacking one pirate in the back of the head with his magical quarterstaff. The echo of the blow was particularly loud in the silence that fell over the battlefield. (Battle beach? How did that work, exactly? Tony reminded himself to ask Rhodey. If Rhodey were around to even ask, and Tony took satisfaction in the fact that the one Wong felled was face down in the sand.)

A few of the Ten Ring pirates exchanged worried glances, but there didn’t seem to be an actual leader. In small clusters, they put down their weapons and surrendered.

Tony was almost disappointed; he still owed the pirates some mayhem. But he got them all to go huddle together, where they could be watched.

Wong used his summoned quarterstaff to draw a circle in the sand around the pirates. When the circle closed, the line burst into eerie black flame that gave off a fragrant smoke. “This is a curse line,” he told them, and his voice echoed in several different languages around him. “If you cross it, you will have cause to regret it for the rest of your -- probably short -- lives.”

Wong turned on his heel and marched over to where Strange lay, propped up against the boulder, resting. “You are hurt.”

“A genius observation, Wong, as always,” Strange said, wetting his lips. “You’re going to need to put my shoulder back in, before the muscles stiffen and swell, or I could lose use of the arm. Stark, I’ll need you to assist.”

“Yep.” Tony helped Strange sit up and brace against one of the boulders. He glanced over at the pirates, who were jostling around, trying to avoid the curse line and the smoke drifting out of it. “What’ll happen if they cross it?”

Wong’s face was as impassive as ever. “Nothing,” he said. “That sort of curse takes time and more energy than it is worth to cast. But every misfortune in their lives, from then on, they will blame upon it.”

Tony barked out a laugh. “Devious,” he said. “I like you.” Wong sniffed in apparent indifference, but Tony thought he saw the barest hint of a smile.

“Don’t tense up,” Wong told Strange, setting his hands on Strange’s shoulder.

“I shall make the attempt,” Strange said. He placed Tony’s hands, one on his chest, the other on the uninjured shoulder. “Hold me down. This will hurt.” The Cloak hovered around them, twisting the hem ends together for all the world looking like a worried mother.

Tony leaned into the man, putting his weight on it. “Ready,” he reported.

“Don’t tense up,” Wong said again. “I will count to three. Don’t hold your breath.”

“I know that, I’m not--” Wong shoved, hard, and Strange’s shoulder let out a sickening, audible pop as it reseated itself.

Strange didn’t scream, but his teeth clenched and his face went white as a sheet. He exhaled, long and steady, before drawing a shuddering inward breath. “Ow.” He coughed, bent over double with the force of it, before finally slumping back against the boulder. “I am quite certain that your mother was of the stock known as Inquisitor.”

“She’d probably take that as a compliment,” Wong said. “Get up. We need to get this ring before these fanatics work up the courage to try something.”

Tony stood up and offered a hand for Strange to grasp. “Time to find out if I can fly.”

The inside of the volcano, if anything, had gotten hotter. The very stone walls were shimmery and melting. Strange cast a small bubble that sat on Tony’s head like a soap bubble, giving him fresh air, although it made everything beyond it look a bit distorted. “It will fit inside your helmet,” Strange told him, “and this metal should keep you safe from the heat. It will be uncomfortable, and I advise doing it as swiftly as possible.”

“Yep,” Tony said. The bubble made his words sound strange, too.

He stood there for a long minute, staring at the bright shine of Incandescence, feeling the way it pulled at Spin. “Okay, we’re going to go grab it,” he told Spin, “and then turn around and come straight back. Very fast. Okay? Okay.”

He was probably not going to die. Right?

Tony had first begun to work in a smithy when he was seven or eight, pumping bellows and fetching tools and water for the smiths. He’d been burned dozens of times, and was well used to the sensation of oppressive heat against his skin.

This was nothing like that.

The dragon iron didn’t absorb heat the way iron and steel did, didn’t pass it along to sear Tony’s skin, but it could only block so much. The very air was scalding, and it only got worse as Tony drew closer to the other ring. He was glad that Spin had launched him so quickly that he didn’t have time to lose his nerve.

He reached down and snatched up the ring, clenching it tightly in his gauntlet.

Spin’s near-constant little hum in the back of his head turned triumphant, like a choir of vengeful angels.

“Stop that and take me back now,” Tony demanded, trying to twist in midair like he was swimming. Heat was seeping through the gauntlet, like Tony had picked up a rod of heated steel in a leather glove. “Come on,” he urged, “let’s _go_.” He looked toward Strange and Wong, who were both watching him intently.

Provided a goal, Spin finally kicked back in, shooting Tony back across the cavern toward them. He barely avoided knocking Strange over as he landed, stumbling a few steps before falling over. At least he hadn’t created a crater this time. He clambered to his feet and staggered toward the mouth of the cave, praying he’d make it before Incandescence burned off his whole hand.

The ground was rumbling, snarling like the world’s biggest monster with an empty belly. Strange and Wong trailed behind him, following him out of the caves. “Did you retrieve--”

The volcano roared. Thick black smoke filled the tunnel. “Stark!”

Tony was grasped from behind and pulled into an overly tight embrace that he could feel all the way through the armor. “Hold tight,” Strange said in his ear.

The volcano’s eruption threw them out of the tunnels like a champagne cork. Instead of brilliant orange lava, they were surrounded by one of Wong’s shields and millions, billions, of butterflies, soft blue and fluttering aimlessly.

The shield toppled them into the sand gently, butterflies surrounding them and then dissolving like mist.

Thick plumes of smoke poured into the sky from the volcano’s mouth, vicious red and orange flowed over the stone. The pirates inside their curse-line circle, were screaming, swearing, and staring up at the volcano like they’d angered their gods.

“The ring, Stark.” Strange held out one scarred and shaking hand. “Give it to me.”

“It’s hot,” Tony warned, but he dropped the ring into Strange’s hand, glad to be rid of the damned thing.

The ring didn’t touch Strange’s skin, hovering instead about an inch above his palm. Strange folded his free hand, two fingers pressed against his palm, the others upright, thumb out. He closed his eyes, inhaled. The ring floated in the air as he withdrew his hand. Crossed his wrists and the entire area was bathed in a soft green glow. The gaudy golden necklace that Strange wore twisted somehow until it opened like an eye.

The ring shimmered and vanished.

Strange shifted his hands again until the golden eye closed and the light faded. “There. It is safe, now.”

Wong scoffed. “You have not yet learned this lesson, Strange. Time is not for you to tamper with.”

“Where did it go?” Tony asked.

“It has not gone anywhere,” Strange said. “It has gone some _when_. It moves ahead of us, a mere thirty seconds, and if we need it, we can catch up with it. In the meanwhile, no one else can get to it.”

“...Huh.”


	7. Chapter 7

Stephen thanked the fire-spirit that lingered inside the belly of the ship’s stove, left it a few offerings of tea leaves and toast, and removed the small tapered pot from the heat. He poured hot water into a shallow basin, heating the herbs and solvents until the air was filled with fragrant steam.

He stirred, then added enough cool water to bring it down to a tolerable temperature. Tested the efficacy of his mixture on the inside of one wrist, sighing as the deep, penetrating heat pushed into sore muscles and aching bones. He dipped the bandages into the mix to let them soak. He shoved his aching fingers into his hair, pushing the tangles out of his face. A quick glimpse in the mirror didn’t show any more gray, although he was never going to be truly happy that he’d gone almost snow white at the temples.

It did not look distinguished, no matter what Mordo had jokingly said, back when he was still at Kamar-Taj. Stephen just looked old. The rest of him wasn’t too bad, he thought. He’d stripped to the waist before starting the herbal mix going, and his shoulders and arms were dotted with bruises from their battle, but still lean and muscular. Not that it mattered, but he’d recognized that he was vain quite a long time ago. No need to change now.

He pulled out the strips of cloth and wrung them out, hanging them to dry. Some few that were already dry, he rolled slowly into bundles and stored them in a watertight basket. Back home, at Kamar-Taj, he had some students to whom the duties of attending the small pharmacy was assigned, but here, he had no one. If he needed relief from his arthritis, he had to mix his own.

Stephen pinned the last of the bandages to the drying line and turned to dump the expended herbal mix off the side of the ship when he almost ran Mr. Stark over. “Oh!” The still warm waters sloshed and some of it spilled onto his stomach, where it cheerfully heated his skin. “Damn.”

“Sorry!” Mr. Stark said, reaching over to steady Stephen’s hands on the pot. He looked down in surprise as the damp mixture seeped into his own skin. “More magic? This is a little more subtle than usual.”

“Not in the usual way,” Stephen said. He pushed past Mr. Stark and dumped the pot over the side, then back into the kitchen where he used clean water and a cloth to wipe up the spills. “It’s a remedy for joint pain. Simple herbs and compounds in a water and wax solvent. The bandages pick up the analgesic properties and later when my hands pain me, I can wrap them for some minimal relief.” He started to pull Mr. Stark’s shirt away from his skin before realizing what he was doing and then awkwardly extended the clean cloth to him. “You’ll probably want to remove that. Carefully; if you get it on your hands and then near your eyes or nose, you won’t like it.”

Mr. Stark hesitated, then took the cloth, wiped off his hands, and dabbed at the spot on his shirt where it had spilled. “It feels nice, actually,” he said. “Warm and relaxing. I wish I’d had this when I was learning the smithy.”

“It’s similar to a lot of muscle liniments,” Stephen told him. “We use some magic, to keep the herbs fresh, for longer. To increase their potency as they grow. And certainly, there are things that magic can do, for healing. This--” he held up his hands to display them, not letting himself flinch “--is long past the time where magic could help. Unless I wished to give it up, entirely. The magic, I mean.” He sighed. He’d considered it, when he’d learned the trick, but he would have had to use all his internal power -- chi, mana, spirit, whatever one wanted to name the lifeforce that powered most magic -- to roll back the injury to the joints. He would have had nothing left over, and the battle against the Mandarin was too important. Maybe, someday, he could lay down the burden and just be Stephen again.

“It’s somehow comforting that magic can’t fix _every_ thing,” Mr. Stark said. He tapped against his chest where Spin was glowing a contented pale blue. “Maybe when you’ve recovered a little, you can help me figure out how to control this thing a little better. It’s like talking to a toddler sometimes.”

“I can well imagine,” Stephen said, curious. “I’ve been studying other-- well, you’ve met Levi, of course. Artifacts of such age and power that they’ve either developed their own motivations and sentience, or they were imbued with it to begin with. My frien-- well, someone I know. Mordo, he had a pair of boots. With a single thought, he could cross seven leagues at a single step. One never knows which items will become enlightened, and which will remain mere tools.”

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow at him. “Seven-league boots? Really? I thought that was a fairy tale.”

“Would it comfort you to know that the Grimms were students of my old master? Many of the things you think of as fairy stories or myths are merely a way to shroud the truth of the world,” Stephen told him. “I was a doubter, at first. Dragons and fairies and magical princesses who sleep forever. It’s hard, isn’t it, to let go of the idea that some things are merely stories? On our way to your island, Wong and I did battle with a covey of sirens, intent upon dragging us below the waves to feed on our flesh.” He shuddered, exaggerated to be sure, but it did make for a good story.

He didn’t question much the motives that made him want to show off for Mr. Stark, wanted Mr. Stark to think well of him. To be impressed. Admiring, even.

“Yeah? How’d you get out of that? I thought sirens were supposed to be irresistible.”

“They are, quite nearly,” Stephen said. He looked back almost with nostalgia, like a missed opportunity. He wondered if they would have told him any of the things they promised, even if they’d eaten him later. Whether it might have been worth it. “Truth? Levi saved us both, and then we ran like rabbits.”

“Seems like a good idea,” Mr. Stark agreed. “So, lessons?”

“Yes, of course,” Stephen said. He gazed around the deck to the forecastle. “There, I imagine, would be best. In case we should miscalculate, you won’t hit your head on the mast on your way up. That would be unpleasant. And we should discuss how best to communicate with him? It? Her? Do you hear an actual voice--” Stephen took Mr. Stark’s arm and started to tug him across the deck, chattering the whole way, brain whirring in six directions at once. He mentally summoned his Grimoire and a few reference books, until his supplies were trailing along behind him like an over-eager child’s pull toy.

Mr. Stark rubbed at his chest and cocked his head to the side. “It doesn’t have a voice,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s more like... feelings.”

“Empathic transfer,” Stephen said, nodding. “It may be that it’s fractured, since there are ten in total, and each piece is limited in scope. Is it… angry? Helpful? What do you feel from it the most, and are you certain you’re feeling it, and can you tell your emotions apart from-- Spin’s? That’s its name? It answers to that name?” He hesitated once they were on the forecastle. If Mr. Stark had been the usual sort of magical student, things would be very different, and they could move into the Mirror Dimension in order to practice, but the last thing he needed would be for Mr. Stark to get trapped there. Without the ability to sling himself out, he would be stuck. Permanently.

“It’s definitely separate from me,” Mr. Stark said. “Mostly it’s just very... enthusiastic. I don’t know if it answers to the name, per se. It seems to know when I’m talking to it specifically rather than to someone else or just to myself.”

“All right, let’s see if we can get in touch with Spin,” Stephen said. He took up a position behind Mr. Stark. “Breathe. Close your eyes if that helps with distraction. We’re going to start with some basic meditation, to separate all the chaff out, make your thoughts clearer. If you’ll allow it, I’ll scan your surface thoughts, see if I can hear, through you. I won’t… pry, of course.”

“You... might want to put a shirt on first,” Mr. Stark said. “It’s a little, erm. Distracting.”

***

Christ, why had he _said_ that? Tony wanted to bang his head into the nearest railing.

Now Strange knew that Tony had been _looking_ at him. Of course, he would have known that anyway, if he was going to be listening in on Tony’s thoughts, because Tony hadn’t been able to stop sneaking looks Strange since they’d nearly collided. What was more embarrassing?

Maybe Tony would just fling himself over the railing and be done with it.

Strange was back a few moments later, wearing a billowy, dark blue shirt with complicated garters at the sleeves, his heavy golden necklace back in place. “Have you been breathing?”

Tony gave Strange a sideways look and huffed out a couple of especially obvious breaths.

“I did mean _meditation_ breathing -- consider it praying to the god inside yourself. Become aware of yourself; your heartbeat and lungs, the way your blood moves. Everything that you are, and everything that you’re not. Follow… deep breath, in through the nose, out the mouth.” He demonstrated, breathing in for just a little longer than Tony felt comfortable with and then out again. The movement made his chest ache, just a little, and after a few breaths, dizzy. And then a few more, and he felt cleaner, somehow. “There we go. Much of magic is being able to relax on demand when people are throwing fireballs at your head.”

“That sounds extremely unrelaxing,” Tony observed, but he kept breathing the way Strange had shown him, though it was hard to remember to keep the nose and mouth separate. He had to focus, to remember. Another few breaths along and he realized he could feel his heart beating within its cage, could feel the stretch and slide of muscle under his skin.

Strange’s hand came down on Tony’s shoulder, the fingers curled loosely. “Good, there we are,” he said. “If it gives you comfort, mind-reading is one of the most difficult skills to learn, and you will seldom be unaware. I cannot, for instance, glean your secrets across the dinner table. There must be contact, and a certain accord, and you will know that I am doing it. If you’re prepared, I will enter you-- your mind now.”

Tony nodded his assent, too tightly focused on the breathing to summon words. He wondered what it would feel like.

Tony was instantly aware of the presence of _another_ inside his thoughts. He couldn’t have described how he knew, or what, exactly was different. If Tony’s thoughts were contained inside a room of his mind, Strange was like an intruder in the dark who didn’t know where any of the furniture was. Strange stumbled, reached out blindly, until he was -- somehow -- touching Tony inside his head. There was a flash of memory that wasn’t his own.

_Wong was standing, a thick book in his arms, glaring at (Stephen) him._

“ _This one's got pages missing,” he said._

“ _That's the book of Cagliostro. The study of time. One of the rituals was stolen by a former Master. A zealot called Kaecilius. Just after he strung up the former librarian, and relieved him of his head,” Wong said. “I'm now the guardian of these books. So if a volume from this collection should be stolen again, I'd know it. And you'd be dead before you ever left the compound.”_

“ _What if it's just overdue? You know? Any... late fees I should know about? Maybe, perhaps, uhm… Uh, you know, people used to think that I was funny,” he said, and remembered Christine with fondness, the way she looked at him over the pillows, smiling. She had been so lovely, her eyes and the way her hair fell into her face._

“ _Did they work for you?” Wong did not look impressed._

“ _Alright. Well, it's been lovely talking to you, thank you for the books and for the horrifying story and for the threat upon my life.”_

Strange jolted, like an animal shying away, and then his hand tightened on Tony’s shoulder. “What happened to you, that you’ve built such walls, Mr. Stark?”

Tony blinked at him in surprise. “Walls? What walls?”

“Your mind is very well organized,” Strange said. “Like a library… I feel I should be able to look at any time or place or thought inside your memories, but there's a… something blocks it. You're very well guarded. It's a fortress in here.”

Tony shrugged, a ripple of shoulders that didn’t displace Strange’s hold. “I don’t know. My mind has always been... my mind. It’s possible that being almost killed and captured by pirates and having a magical artifact embedded in my chest has rendered me somewhat... warier than usual.”

“Perhaps,” Strange said. “Well, it's no matter. Surface thoughts only. Try to speak with Spin and we'll see if she reacts. And if she does, what she might have to say.”

 _She_ , huh? Feeling slightly foolish, Tony touched his chest and said, “Spin? You awake, there?”

Like a cat, deeply asleep, there was a flicker of interest, a twitch of an ear, a shift of a whisker. Debating whether or not Tony’s request was worth the effort of a yawn, a stretch, and some alertness. A sigh, seemingly, and a settling. _No_.

“Oh, come on. We want to practice flying. That’ll be fun, right?”

Another flick, this time with some interest. A slight feeling of disdain; why was practice required when Spin _already_ knew how to fly? Spin was napping. The ring seemed, somehow, to turn around in an even tighter circle, deliberately ignoring him, but in such a way that Tony was completely aware that he was being snubbed.

Behind him, somewhere in the real world, Strange huffed out a breath that wasn’t _quite_ a laugh.

Tony tried to direct a mental glare in Strange’s direction, though he wasn’t sure how successful he was. “If I don’t learn how to fly, we won’t be able to go find your...” Tony wasn’t quite sure how to classify the other rings. Siblings? Littermates? “...Friends.”

A huge sigh, but then there was an uncoiling, a more alert attention. Like a sullen shrug. _Fine._

“Thank you. Okay, let’s start with...” Tony turned his attention back to Strange. “Hovering? Or is staying still harder than moving?”

Tony had tutors who had sometimes shaken his shoulder, a butler who constantly poked at his spine to make him _stand up straight, young man,_ and from time to time his mother had grabbed his ear as a way to get him to pay attention. This was… entirely unlike any of that, but somehow, the _feeling_ was the same.

Spin yanked at him, pushing his limbs until his feet were together, arms down and slightly away from his body, hands held bent sharply at the wrist as if he were going to push himself away from the ship’s deck. His head tipped up without his direction, a puppet being controlled by something both intolerably immature and unfathomably ancient at the same time.

Strange let go of him suddenly and stepped back. The instant Strange’s hand left his shoulder, Tony was launched into the sky, a firework, or a missile flung from a catapult. _Fly!_

“Too much! Too fast!” Tony yelped, to Spin’s utter disgust. He flailed. Below him, the ship was sailing on without him; if he didn’t figure this out soon, it would leave him behind, hanging in the air in the middle of the ocean.

Tony tried to think of birds, what they looked like flying through the air. Face forward, feet tucked up. He thought of sledding down a hill on the snow, and tried tipping his body a little. He slid through the air, and grinned. Okay, maybe this wasn’t so bad. He tipped back the other way, realigning himself with the ship.

He shifted one leg, and then the other, feeling out the ways it adjusted his movement through the air.

Spin felt more awake now, watching him with guarded, tolerant interest.

Tony angled himself back toward the ship and swooped down toward the deck where Strange still stood, watching him.

A moment later, Strange’s cloak was swirling around his shoulders and the sorcerer brought himself up to hover near Tony’s side; he didn’t fly the same way; more like a kite than a bird. “Shall we run a circuit around the ship, then?”

“Let’s give it a try,” Tony agreed, and banked to turn around the prow.

Strange swooped around, flying in a tight, spiraling circle around Tony, a moon orbiting the planet, which went ‘round the sun that was the ship, a beautiful, _mathematical_ dance, and once Tony opened up to the possibility that flight was _math_ , trajectory and angles, pitch and yaw, thrust and lift and drag, somewhere he found a common language with Spin. Numbers glittered and the calculations dangled in front of his mind’s eye.

This was _fun_.

Wong came out on the deck to watch them, hands on his hips, and Tony buzzed a circle around him, laughing as he pulled back up into the air to spiral around Strange. Tony whooped like a schoolboy and shot up higher into the air, until it started to feel cold, and then dove back down.

Tony was faster, but Strange was a damn _cheat_ ; he kept opening those orange portal rings and slicing through them, stitching in and out of reality to keep just ahead. He rolled over onto his back and grinned up at Tony, hands tucked behind his head like he was getting ready to take a nap.

“I can fly!” Tony announced happily. He dove under Strange, shot back up and rolled over to fly parallel to Strange. “This is great. Why don’t you fly all the time?”

“Levi gets tired,” Strange pointed out. “The energy is, perhaps, the same as running at top speed, constantly. In fact, I would suggest we should land, before we try the limits of Spin’s resources?”

Tony pouted, even if he had to concede the point. “Oh, fine.” He angled himself toward the deck and slowed his speed until he could simply drop out of the air and land lightly on his feet. He patted his chest. “There, wasn’t that fun?”

There was a decided smugness to Spin’s mood as she curled up in his chest again, snuggled around his heart. For something that was so _alien_ , so invasive, somehow Tony felt the ring might actually be… his friend. Or at least, that she was less disgusted with him than she had been previously.

Strange twirled down, like a ballet dancer until he was deckside once more. “When you’ve had more practice, we’ll test endurance, and perhaps, speed. Whether or not Spin will cushion you from a mid-air collision. Trust me, you do not want to hit a bird at eighty knots.”

“They explode,” Wong said, not even blinking. “Feathers and blood everywhere. It’s a mess.”

Tony blinked at Wong, nonplussed. “...Right.”

Spin hummed, if possibly, even _more_ smugly. Tony wasn’t sure if that meant she enjoyed blowing up the occasional bird, or that she was fast enough to make them avoid any potential collisions, or something entirely different.

“You do seem to be getting the feel for the ring,” Strange said, his mouth twitching into a smile, the lock of hair that twisted into his face making Tony’s fingers itch to push it back. “Come, let us see what she makes of the map; she may have advice on where to seek the next of her kin.”

Wong scoffed. “You are both _children_.”

“Just means we’re going to live longer,” Tony returned with a grin. Wong rolled his eyes, but Strange laughed, and that seemed somehow just right.


	8. Chapter 8

Stephen was studying. Or, at least, that’s what he was telling himself. He had his books, his notes, an apple that he was eating. All the trappings of study that he was used to. Up on the deck, a shield cast to keep the seawater away from the papers. Like always.

And if he was, in fact, actually watching Stark putter around the ship, repairing and upgrading the various boards and ropes and things that Stephen didn’t even know the names for, well, that was Stephen’s business, wasn’t it?

Not that Stephen hadn’t had to rescue him from time to time, but Stark had learned to control his ring and splattering on the deck was significantly less likely, now. There was no need for Stephen to be constantly on alert for disaster

Stephen directed his gaze back at the book, but he read the same paragraph two or three times without comprehending it, and found himself again looking over the top of the book at Stark’s lithe form as he bent over a pile of wood and rope.

Stark cut notches into a board and snugged rope into the notches, knotting it securely. His muscles bunched and stretched as he worked, sweat making his shirt stick to his skin with near transparency. His hair was tousled, wild curls sticking up in all directions, or plastered to the back of his neck.

Stark looked up and caught Stephen looking. Stephen could feel the heat rising his own neck, but Stark just held up his plank-and-rope contraption with a big grin, as if Stephen were meant to comprehend its purpose.

Stephen opened his mouth to say something, although he really had no idea what it was going to be, when Wong tramped up onto the deck carrying a half dozen empty baskets. “You--” He pointed at Stephen. “--stay there and don’t move much. You, come with me.” He shoved half of his baskets in Stark’s direction. “You eat too much, we are low on supplies.”

“No pickles, Wong,” Stephen protested. Of course Wong was going to use Stephen as a sling-reference. That way, Stephen wouldn’t have any say in what food Wong returned with. “Fresh fruit! _Eggs_. Bread, preferably something that won’t chip my teeth. And for God’s sake, tea. Please.”

Stark put his whatever-it-was down and shoved his fingers through his hair before taking the baskets from Wong. “I feel obliged to point out that it’s going to be difficult to carry all these when they’re full.”

“You are weak and lazy,” Wong said. “This will build strength!” He made the traditional centering gesture, his three fingered sling-ring on his left hand, spinning the portal open, cutting a hole in reality. Through the runes, Stephen could see the back of the library in the Hong Kong sanctuary. Great. Pickles and _rice_. At least the tea was good. If Wong remembered to get any.

Stephen watched until they went through and the portal twisted closed behind them. He couldn’t move too much; Wong was using him, sitting precisely thus, to target their return trip. If he did much of anything, they might never return, the portal not opening, or worse, transporting them to an alternate plane of reality, where Stark would be nearly defenseless.

_Study, Stephen,_ he told himself. It still wasn’t easy; even without the distraction of Stark. Stephen barely had to close his eyes to picture the man with exacting detail. The way his sweat-drenched shirt was practically see-through, the way his trousers clung to long legs and a rounded backside. He had a tear on the left that showed off the delectable curve of his ass. Stephen had thread and a needle in his kit; he’d neglected to mention it.

If Stark had one of the other rings, Liar, perhaps, or Remaker, Stephen might have thought he was being unduly influenced by magic, the way his gaze kept being drawn to Stark. The way his thoughts kept coming back to the man.

The way Stephen was _fascinated_ by him.

Had dreamed of him, twice now, and woken up alone, hard, and aching.

It was enough to drive a man to extreme measures.

Although Stephen wasn’t sure what those might be. The sorcerers of Kamar-Taj weren’t monks, but sometimes Stephen felt like he’d become one. He hadn’t touched another person with passion since he turned his back on science and became a master of the mystic arts. He barely touched his friends; Wong was not at all given to gestures of affection. And Mordo had been gone these two years at least.

Stephen took a deep, cleansing breath and turned his eyes back to the page. _Study._

***

The storeroom to which Wong led Tony was dim and full of fascinating, unfamiliar smells. The labels were written in one of the intricate scripts of the Far East -- Tony didn’t know enough of any of them to identify which. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Hong Kong, the Sanctum,” Wong answered. “One of three over points of power. The places where ley lines overlap and form wells. They are where we shield the world from enemies that look to Earth from beyond our reality.”

Tony had stopped listening about halfway through the explanation, as his brain supplied a map. “Hong _Kong_? That’s _literally_ halfway around the world from where we were! If you can open portals that far away, why the hell are you messing around with that tub of scrap you call a ship? You could just _walk_ wherever the rings are!”

“It builds character,” Wong said. “Put those down. You are in need of clothing that is clean and in better repair. We will attend that need first.”

Tony put the baskets down, only to be distracted by a storage bin full of some fruit he’d never seen before. “Oh, what’s this?” He picked one up and turned it over in his hand. “That’s a heavy rind; how do you eat it?” He sniffed at it, then put it back and pointed at a bundle of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. “What are those?”

“Do you never tire of questions? It is jackfruit, and you need a knife and gloves, but most prefer it dried -- there, on that shelf, you will find pouches of candied slices,” Wong said. He swatted Tony’s hand away from a barrel full of salted and dried fish. “Here, this is a starfruit, you can eat the entire thing, skin and seeds and flesh. This way, Mr. Stark.”

Tony followed Wong and marveled at the starfruit. “It’s such an odd shape! I wonder why it does that!” He sniffed at it, then nibbled at one end. “Oh, that’s delicious. A little strange. Of course I don’t get tired of questions. How else am I supposed to learn anything? But seriously, why go through all the hassle of sailing around?”

“The portals are formed through exacting visualization. The clearer in my mind I can picture a place, the easier the portal will open, and the more stable it is. It is not possible to go to a place you have not been before,” Wong said. “You could end up almost anywhere, including in another reality. The ship gives us a way to get closer to our desired location without having to carry with us everything we need. At present, the rings we chase are close to the shore. We will make other arrangements, if we must travel, say, to central Africa, or to the wastes of Mongolia, or the arctic circle.”

“Huh. I can see this is going to be a hell of a ride.”

Wong opened a door and lit a lantern with a negligent wave. The room was full of cedar chests and bolts of cloth on shelves. Clothing, right. Tony opened the nearest chest and lifted out the topmost garment, finding a navy blue tunic. He shook it out and held it up to check the size against his chest.

Some moments later, loaded down with tunics in a few basic hues, several pairs of brown or black trousers, a few simple smocks for sleeping, boots, and socks, Tony staggered back into the pantry where Wong was loading up their food supplies. “Do you know how to cook?” Wong demanded

“Sometimes I can boil water without burning it,” Tony said. “I’m rich, Wong. I have servants for that. Or I did.”

“ _Pickles_ ,” Wong said, decisively. He started putting clay jars into the baskets.

“Apples,” Tony suggested. “Do you have those here?” He opened a basket and peered in. “Oh, onions, those keep pretty well, too.”

Wong sighed. “You will learn,” he decided, grabbing down a thick book and shoving it in Tony’s general direction.

Tony fumbled for a moment to hold it without dropping the clothes he was wearing. He opened the cover and looked at the writing inside. “I can’t read Chinese.”

Wong raised an eyebrow. “Then you will learn.”

And that seemed to be that. The sorcerer loaded more baskets: bread (that wasn’t hardtack, thank God), a bag full of citrus fruit that sort of smelled like limes, but was yellowy-orange instead, several sacks of rice, and a jar of some spicy sauce that made Tony’s eyes water, but might taste good over rice. Theoretically.

Finally, the food was stacked just outside the kitchen. “We will go now,” Wong said. “Move our supplies rapidly. The ship is still in motion; maintaining the portal will be trying.”

“Uh, sure,” Tony said. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re kind of bossy?” Nevertheless, when Wong opened the glowing portal, Tony picked up three baskets stacked on each other and lugged them as quickly through as he could manage.

Wong followed through with several other parcels and baskets. “No,” he said. “No one has mentioned this before.” He looked almost offended, as if being bossy was a horrible accusation, but at the same time, he didn’t particularly think much of Tony’s opinion.

“Welcome back,” Strange said, looking up from his book. “I have found the next ring. This should be exciting; it’s still unclaimed.”

“I’d think that would make it somewhat less exciting, wouldn’t it?” Tony asked. He dropped his armful of clothes on top of the baskets and put the book on top of that. “In that we won’t have to fight anyone for it.”

“Hopefully not,” Strange said. “Although contenders might come upon us unaware. I do not love surprises. At least not in things such as these.” He got up from his chair and poked around in the baskets. “Or baskets of rice.” Strange heaved a sigh. “I find myself sympathizing, sometimes, with Mordo. He was one of us; now he sells his services to the highest bidder. Some luxury, that’s not too much to ask for, is it? What, no apples, Wong?”

“It is too much to ask for,” Wong said, raising one eyebrow impassively. “And I feared the apples would drive you away. That is your saying, is it not, Doctor?” He made a sound that might have passed for a chuckle, then grabbed the basket, lugging it into the galley.

“Is he laughing at me?” Strange wondered. He opened another basket. “Oh! Fruit, thank God. I could _kiss_ you.”

Tony threw on a smirk. “You could, but will you?” He gave Strange his best leer and scooped up his new clothes to take them below, trying not to imagine what a kiss from the doctor might feel like. That was trouble he did not want to court.

“Not today, apparently,” Strange muttered, just as Tony got out of earshot. He wasn’t quite sure he heard correctly, but when he looked back, Strange was methodically using magic to peel one of the citrus fruits, holding it aloft on a cushion of power and spinning the skin right off it with a few gestures from those bent and shattered fingers.

***

On the plus side, according to his map, the Ring of Darkness, Nightbringer, was on that island.

On the negative side, according to his map, the Ring of Darkness, Nightbringer, was on _that_ island.

Theoretically, there was an island there. Under a thick fog of near black mist, shrouded from the sun. The waters there were likely unnavigable by ship; they certainly didn’t have the crew for a shoaling mission. Magical light did not penetrate the darkness.

“Lovely,” Stephen said. He crossed his arms over his chest as if he could glare the island into submission. “I find myself at somewhat of a loss. How shall we approach a danger that we cannot see?”

“Carefully,” Tony quipped. He peered through the spyglass at the island, though Stephen had already done that, and there wasn’t anything to see besides more of that mist. “Well,” he said, dropping the glass, “we could drop anchor and fly over.” He mused, “Do you suppose the mist covers the _whole_ island, or just the shoreline?”

“I suspect we will shortly find out,” Stephen said. He summoned the Cloak with a quick glance. “If you’d care to fly with me, we shall run a quick reconnaissance mission, to the edge of the mist, a step or two inside, and then out. Without knowing if the fog is poisonous, or magical, or even magic-null, I do not want to risk any more than that.”

Tony nodded and picked up his helmet; he’d donned the rest of the armor when the island first came into sight. “Yep, good call,” he agreed. “Ready when you are.”

There was a deep sense of foreboding, as soon as the Cloak lifted him and his feet left the deck. It did not get better as they moved, slowly, toward the misty shores. He reminded himself that Wong would stay behind, guard the ship, and mount a rescue if one were needed.

The sky grew darker as they approached, as if the mist was reaching out for them. Noise, beyond the fog, unclear. Thudding sounds, and chanting, leathery crackles, like enormous wings, moved the air. A slicing, cutting sound, as if giant scissors were making paper dolls. Stephen tipped his head, trying to hear better, trying to understand.

“What the hell is that?” He wasn’t sure, but his curiosity was roused. “What do you hear?”

“Sounds like... glass clinking?” Tony said doubtfully, his head tipped to listen better. “And a crackling sound, like... fire, I think?”

Stephen shivered, rubbing at his arms. The air was getting colder. “Well, it won’t be any clearer from here.” He flitted forward another dozen yards, then, without thinking how the gesture might be received, he held out a hand to Tony. “We do not wish to be seperated, I think.”

Tony hesitated just long enough for Stephen to realize it might have been a mistake, then closed the distance between them and took his hand. “No, we definitely want to stick together on this one.”

With his free hand, he tapped at Spin, apparently trying to coax a little more light out of it. The ring brightened, but it didn’t do much to part the mist.

Stephen’s hand tightened on Tony’s fingers, then he pulled them carefully into the mist. The darkness was, for a moment, absolute. He could see nothing, hear nothing, could barely feel the metal of Tony’s armor under his fingers.

And… then there was a crackle like a log in a fireplace and they weren’t flying anymore. They were standing, together, hands still linked. Armor, gone. Cloak, gone. Dressed, not even in his Kamar-Taj robes, but in the old tunic and pants he’d worn as a doctor. Looking around in wonder at a room that looked like an office, or a library.

A slender man sat behind an imposing desk, a tumbler of scotch at his elbow. He was staring across the desk’s surface at a boy, maybe ten years old, who was struggling to look braver than he actually was.

“Your headmaster says the damage was extensive,” the man said, “and deliberate. Do you even stop to think before you do something monumentally stupid, boy?”

Stephen raised an eyebrow; the man didn’t seem to notice that two, fully grown men had just materialized inside his study. “What is this?” The man didn’t look around. The boy tipped his head, just a little, as if maybe, somehow, he’d heard Stephen’s voice, but then turned his attention back to what was probably his father. Both of them looked oddly _familiar_ , somehow.

Tony’s hand twitched in Stephen’s grasp, and he took a half a step back. “Nowhere we want to be,” he breathed. “We should go, immediately.”

“I _did_ think,” the boy protested. “It’s just, the wood was old!”

“On your very last chance,” the man said. “One more mistake, and you’ll be booted out of yet another school. Do you think I have endless time and resources to find you someplace where they might be bothered to beat some sense into your head? Or do you think I should do that myself?” The man stood up. “You know the drill, boy. Hands on the desk.”

Stephen realized his arm was shaking, that Tony was trembling all over. He stared for a moment, then back at the boy. “It’s you,” he breathed.

“We should go,” Tony repeated, unable to quite tear his gaze from his younger self. “Please. Before...”

Stephen winced; the boy was sobbing, silently, obviously knowing what was going to happen. Stephen yanked Tony forward, free hand going up to stop the man. The leather belt whistled through the air. His hand went right through Stephen’s attempt to grab him, and the belt came down over the boy’s shoulders.

The boy yelped and Tony flinched, hard, a sharp gasp busting from his mouth as if he were the one who’d been struck. “No,” he begged, but the belt swung down again, and this time Tony’s hand was jerked nearly out of Stephen’s entirely. He curled his free arm around his waist. “Oh, God, I can _feel_ it,” he whispered.

“Let’s go,” Stephen said, voice harsh with sympathy, with anger toward the man. “There’s nothing--” Except they couldn’t _leave_. Each step Stephen tried to step away was slower, and slower than the one before, like one of those terrible dreams where something chased, but he could never run. He managed a desperate lunge, touching the wall, but the whole room spun around them, facing them back toward the scene of violence and fear.

“Ah!” Tony cried, barely audible under the boy’s scream and the father’s snarling. “He-- broke a rib, I think, this time.” The man raised his arm again, and Tony rushed forward, pulling Stephen after him, trying to block the blow. It was useless, as it had been for Stephen, slicing right through Tony to strike the boy with a sickening crack.

Tony staggered, falling back toward the boy. He put his hand out as if to catch himself. Stephen expected it to slide through the boy, but the instant Tony’s hand made contact, he-- disappeared.

“Tony!” Stephen yelled, his fingers closing on the space where his wrist had been. “Damn--” The boy turned, looked directly at Stephen. “Tony?”

Another blow fell, and the boy -- Tony? -- choked out a sob. He looked at Stephen again, though, blinking back tears, eyes darting around frantically. His mouth firmed, then, and he straightened, turning just in time to duck another heavy-handed swing. He stared up at his father, breath coming in fast, short pants, eyes wide with fear, and said, “Enough.”

“Don’t you talk back to me, boy!” The man, Tony’s father, or some ancient evil and monstrous thing that was currently taking the form of a man, who had once hurt a boy, Stephen didn’t even know.

“Tony, I’m here,” Stephen told him, reaching out for the boy, wishing he could do something, but he didn’t know how. He reached, trying to find his magic, but again, like a dream, he couldn’t find it, he could find nothing. He was useless, helpless to stop this. Helpless to do anything. He couldn’t touch the boy, his hand kept moving through him.

Tony glanced toward him, though, as if he could see him, and then lifted his chin. “Enough!” he repeated. He took a step toward the man.

The man stopped, actually looked at his son, defiant and fists clenched. “Think you’re getting too big for your britches? You think you don’t deserve this? You’re just like your mother, weak and pathetic. Not as smart as you think you are. You’ll never be worthy, never make anything of yourself. Look at you, whining about a whipping. Pathetic. Weak. Stupid.” The man’s face grew furious, red, spewing insults. He drew the belt back again, aiming for the boy’s face.

“No! Goddamn it, _stop_!” Stephen threw himself between the two of them, turned to give the man his back, as if that would help, as if he could do anything.

It didn’t work, yet again, but for an instant, a flicker of light shone from the center of the boy’s chest, and he looked up to meet Stephen’s eyes as he lifted his hand to catch the belt as it whipped down. He wrapped his hand around it and yanked, hard, his expression icy as he looked past Stephen. “No more.”

The boy’s tormentor shivered into darkness and shadow, like mist melting under sunlight. For just a moment, Stephen could look around and see endless beach, the blue water, the bright sky, and then--

_Pain, and pain, and pain._

He screamed, lifting his hands. They were scarred and gnarled as they always were, but there were dark thumps, like rocks, striking rocks, stacks of them, weighed and measured.

He--

He staggered, the world went dark again.

Spinning, falling, and then--

The Inquisitor, red robed and masked, stared at him.

At another Stephen, bound to a bench, his hands stretched in front of him, cuffed to the table. He was trying endlessly to pull away, but he couldn’t move.

“You will confess,” the Inquisitor said. “You made a pact with the forces of Satan, and you brought death to this city.”

The Stephen on the bench didn’t know what pain was. He hadn’t experienced it yet. He had thought he could be strong. He had thought he could bear it. He had believed that he was right, and that being right _mattered_ , somehow.

That Stephen had been proud. Had been confident in himself.

“I will do no such thing,” he had said. He mouthed the words, as the Stephen on the bench spoke them.

“Bring the weights.”

Stephen stared around frantically. “Tony? Are you--”

Tony was there, just behind him, still breathing hard from the previous encounter. He reached out and clasped Stephen’s shoulder, staring at the Inquisitor in surprise. “I’m here,” he said, somewhat hoarse.

“No,” Stephen said, trying to turn away from himself. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t do this again, I can’t. There’s… there’s no way to win, there was nothing I could do, there was nothing--”

He shrieked as the first rocks came down. The Stephen in the past, the one he couldn’t help, the one who was going to die and give birth to the shattered man he had become, didn’t scream. He just moaned, gritting his jaw defiantly. Staring at the Inquisitor, even as his eyes had burned with tears he wouldn’t shed.

His fingers were being crushed. He knew it as soon as the weight fell, if it didn’t stop, he would never be able to perform surgery again. He would never be able to help anyone again.

“Christ,” Tony swore. His hand tightened on Stephen’s shoulder and then he was trying to push at the rocks and weights, to free that younger Stephen’s hands, but it was as useless as it had been for Stephen trying to stop the boy’s beating. “Stop it, you monster!”

More rocks. One for each of the merchants who had brought charges against him. And they were all there, in the crowd, watching and cheering. The stomping sound of their feet in the stands, the flapping of the inquisitor’s cloak like some giant dragon.

“No, no, please, my hands--”

He lurched forward and fell into himself.

And there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t wrench himself free, he couldn’t make them stop.

He could only--

“I confess,” he said, before the third set of stones came down. “I confess. Father, forgive me, I have sinned.”

The Inquisitor stopped, rock upraised, staring at Stephen. “What do you confess, my son?”

“I was wrong.” It was the hardest thing Stephen had ever brought himself to say.

The Inquisitor put the rock back down on the table, and it shimmered, it changed, it shrank and pulled in on itself until it was a ring, ancient and battered and ugly, eight little black gems in rows of two, a square.

“Tony, get it!”

Tony darted forward and grabbed for the ring, scrabbling with both hands.

As soon as Tony’s fingers closed on the ring, Stephen pitched forward, no longer supported by a table that wasn’t there. No longer bound to a bench.

No longer wearing his old clothes. He was on his knees in the sand.

The sun was shining.

The island was behind them, bright and green and peaceful.

Stephen stared at his hands, still scarred and gnarled. Looked at Tony, standing there in his armor.

Stephen burst into tears.


	9. Chapter 9

Night on the ocean was a strange, almost luminous experience. Unlike in the cities, where it seemed the world was dark and yet still full of people and shadows, the sea was ridiculously bright at night, but in a way that distorted a thing’s true shape. Starlight and moonlight reflected off the waters, unobscured by trees or rooftops. There was the constant sound of the ocean, and yet it was nearly silent.

The creak of ropes and ripple-sway of sails. The _whish whish_ of water against the hull.

None of these things were loud enough for Tony to miss it when Stephen got up somewhat after midnight, even barefoot on the stairs, to pace the deck.

He listened for a while, but when it became clear that Stephen wasn’t just answering nature’s call or getting a cup of water, he threw off his own blanket and made his way up the narrow stairs. “Trouble?” he asked when Stephen turned to see him.

Stephen flicked his fingers, indicating a small, dark form that was on his shoulder; not quite a bird, but nothing quite so glamorous as a fairy, either. “My old friend has sent a message,” Stephen said. “An invitation, so to speak. Almost assuredly, a trap.”

The creature was tiny, as if cut from pure darkness, with a wrinkled little face and overly large teeth. It bared these teeth in a scowl, hissing at Tony like an angry cat.

Tony eyed it warily. “Is that a demon?”

Stephen stroked the creature with one finger, soothing it. “A homunculus,” Stephen said. “Of moderate intelligence and infinite use, they are shaped from clay and animated through blood. Once imbued with life, they are quite loyal to their creators. This one belongs to my old friend, Karl Mordo. We trained together at Kamar-Taj. There can be no mistake, each homunculus is unique. I would know his anywhere.” The creature hissed at Tony again, then practically cuddled up with Stephen’s ear, glaring with slitted, orange eyes, at Tony.

“Friendly,” Tony said. Were those eyes _glowing_? How had the thing found them? Could its creator use it to find them? He suppressed the questions that burbled to the surface of his mind and made himself focus. “What’s the trap?”

Stephen reached into his robes and pulled out a fancy scroll, the script illuminated. “We are invited to a tournament,” he said. “How’s your skill in the saddle? Do you know how to handle a lance? The emperor of the Holy Romans wishes to be entertained, and for a prize, he offers the ring, Spectral.”

Tony sputtered out a laugh. “A _lance_? Like a knight? I ride well enough, and I can even fence a little, but who uses a lance anymore?”

“The Romans, still, apparently,” Stephen said. “Mordo writes me that he has taken up work under a skilled sportsman and warrior, Lord Justin of the Hammer. He is the popular contender for the win, and Mordo… well, I suppose he wishes to make it a challenge. Or even just to meet again, under better circumstances than we parted. Here, at least, so obviously under the eyes of many, we will have to hold to a truce.” Stephen sighed. “I don’t believe we can allow his champion to take possession of the ring.”

“No, probably not,” Tony agreed. “But a lance, really?” He grimaced. “At least the armor will keep me from getting skewered, but I’m going to need somewhere to practice if you really want to attempt this. Sure we can’t just wait for this contest to be done and then take the ring from the winner?”

“And risk the winner claiming the ring, and all that goes with it? Spectral, from my research, can reduce a man to his bare component parts, not even muscle and bone and sinew, but those things that make up the muscle; the tiniest of tiny parts. There would not be enough left of such a victim to scrape into a thimble.” The tiny creature on Stephen’s shoulder uttered a chilling little giggle and held its claws out to indicate a very small piece of something, then rubbed those hands together, eagerly.

“Charming,” Tony grumbled. “What are the terms?”

“The grand melee,” Stephen said, “in which all fight until only a few remain standing -- injuries, not death, are the order of the day -- and those who prevail will face three trials; of might, in this case, the joust. A trial of wit -- perhaps a riddle, a puzzle, or a trap. And a challenge of will. The champion will be awarded the ring.”

“Mm. There aren’t many who can match me for wit,” Tony said -- it wasn’t bragging if it was true -- “and I can be remarkably stubborn when I want to. It might have to suffice.”

“You will, with the armor’s advantage and Spin’s assistance, be well able to make it through the melee,” Stephen said. “You’re no slack for that. It is an honest chance, and that is all we can ask for, I suppose.” His smile was brighter than his words, almost a begrudging admiration. “Go to your master, tell him we will be there.”

The creature climbed up Stephen’s hair, which had the effect of making him wince, and then plucked a single hair from his head, crowed in triumph, and flew away, tiny bat wings beating against the night sky. When it was only a few feet above their heads, the homunculus disappeared with a bang.

Tony stared at the spot where it had been for a long moment, almost daring it to reappear. He blew out a breath. “Guess I’d better brush up on my swordwork,” he sighed.

Stephen rubbed at his head. “That’s near a dozen of my hairs that creature has yanked out of my head. I expect him to snatch me bald at some point. He resents me on Mordo’s behalf.” He nodded, slowly. “I think you will do very well at a tourney. You showed exceptional courage, when facing Nightbringer. Moreso than I.”

Tony snorted. “I don’t know if you could call it courage more than sheer desperation,” he admitted. “That, and a thousand nights of fantasizing how it might have gone differently.”

“I was told, in my novice-teachings, that naming a thing gave it less power over you,” Stephen said. “But I have also discovered that sometimes, someone else naming it, some vindication, some acknowledgement from another person, aided that process.” He turned to look directly at Tony, and even in the starlight, Tony was aware of how very green Stephen’s eyes were, clear and wise and soft. “Your father was a monster. He should never have been allowed to bear sons, nor force them to shoulder his burdens. What he did to you was wrong.”

It felt like all the air had left Tony’s chest, leaving him fighting to draw a breath. “I... Know that. Now. Thank you. I don’t know if I would have remembered it, there, if you hadn’t been with me.” It was less difficult than he expected it to be to meet Stephen’s fey gaze. “You weren’t wrong, and saying you were doesn’t make it true. What they did to you was nothing but cruelty born out of the fear of small minds.”

“The Ancient One, my teacher, my predecessor, she said it was my fear of failure that actually held me back,” Stephen said. “Perhaps, if I let go of my need to be right, to be in control, all the time, I can come to some sort of peace.” He gave Tony a wink -- a wink? Why would he wink at Tony? “I can honestly say it’s not going particularly well at the moment.”

Tony tapped at Spin, feeling the way it reverberated through his chest. “That’s fair,” he conceded. “This isn’t a peaceful sort of job, and I’m definitely not a peaceful sort of person.”

“That will probably come in handy for a tournament.” Stephen stepped closer and put an arm around Tony’s shoulders. “Come, you must get your rest. Tomorrow will be soon enough to figure the logistics of not only getting you a war horse, but, indeed, figuring out how we are going to get to Europe inside a week’s time.”

“War horse,” Tony repeated, shaking his head. What had his life come to? “If you can get us to London, I can just _buy_ us horses,” he said. “We have an office there. They’ll probably want to know I’m still alive, really.”

“London, I can do,” Stephen said. “Tea. Biscuits. Jam. And war horses.”

***

After weeks aboard a seagoing vessel -- Tony was still not going to do that barely-floating tub the dignity of calling it a ship -- London was both too crowded, and absolutely perfect at the same time. The general hubbub and bustle of humanity, the filthy air, the dirty streets, all reminded Tony of a world where the golden rule prevailed: he who has the gold makes the rules.

Stark and Son’s company headquarters was a modern stone-faced building, all angular lines and a lot of glass. One of their main sub-businesses was glazing, and it served as mute advertising to have so many very clear windows on the outside of the building.

It also meant that everyone inside could see the street, and it didn’t take long for rumor to spread when Tony was walking down the road.

He wasn’t exactly an unknown figure; artists had plastered his face on paintings and handbills alike. There was even a series of terrible novels about his supposed adventures. Tony had read a few of them; they were utterly ridiculous, but at least the novel version of himself appeared to be getting very drunk and well laid on a regular basis in between tackling such trials as a werewolf plague and rogue automatons with a pistol and a witty one liner.

He walked into the building with Stephen and Wong at his back, looking inscrutable and disapproving, respectively, and accosted the clerk nearest the door. “Who’s in charge right now?”

“Of the office, sir, or-- in general, Mr. Stane, sir,” the clerk stammered. “Here, Miss Potts and Colonel Rhodes are sharing that duty for the--” He scrambled out from behind his desk. “Mr. Stark, it’s… welcome back, sir. Should I, no, nevermind, of course you want-- this way, sir. Colonel Rhodes will want to see you right away, sir.”

Rhodey did, indeed, want to see him right away, and he didn’t even wait for Tony to make it to the offices on the second floor. He was vaulting down the stairs as if he was still a boy, and throwing his arms around Tony with no shame whatsoever. “How was the pirate cruise?” he asked in Tony’s ear, pounding him on the back and practically crushing the breath right out of him. “Next time, you stay _behind me_.”

Tony clung to his friend with equal fervor, hiding his face against Rhodey’s neck for a long moment so he wouldn’t burst into tears in front of the entire office. “You’re alive,” he gasped, “you son of a bitch, you’re _alive_. Thank God.” When he was reasonably certain he wouldn’t disgrace himself in public, he pushed back and waved toward Stephen and Wong. “Doctor Strange, Wong: Rhodey. Er. Rhodes. My right-hand man. They rescued me after I wound up stranded on a deserted island,” he told Rhodey.

“Do I even want to know what you did to those poor pirates?” Rhodey asked, putting an arm around Tony and steering him back into the back. He threw a look backward at Stephen and Wong. “We’re grateful. I’m sure that Miss Potts will do something for you, in terms of reward and recompense for your time.”

When the two sorcerers followed them even further, keeping right at Tony’s heels, Rhodey frowned. “What’s… going on?”

Tony glanced around at the clerks desperately pretending they were working and not watching the reunion. “Have you got somewhere we can talk privately? Just the four of us?” He considered. “And Pepper, she’ll probably need to hear it, too.”

“The Sanctum,” Wong said, decisively. “We will be under the auspices of the greatest protection imaginable. It is not far, even if we have to walk.”  

“And what else are we gonna do, _fly_?” Rhodey wondered, leading them upstairs to his office.

Pepper, her bright hair a flash of welcome cover, scurried over to them. She almost hugged him, before bringing herself sharply upright and giving him a formal little curtsey, which couldn’t disguise the fact that she, unlike Rhodey and Tony, was crying. At least a little.

“What’s this?” Tony asked. “A few tears for your long-lost boss?”

“Tears of joy,” she said, smacking his arm pertly. “I hate looking for work.”

“Yeah, well, vacation’s over,” he said. “First, I need a note for the bankers, and then you need to come walk with us so we can have a little chat.”

Pepper was all business, then, pushing her hair out of her face. “All right, Tony,” she said.

Stephen closed the door to Pepper’s office. “No need to lead the entirety of your employees down the streets,” he said. “We’ll do it the easy way. Please don’t be alarmed.”

“I have been friends with this man for quite a number of years and believe me, when someone says not to be alarmed in his vicinity,” Rhodey said, “I become alarmed. Just the nature of the relationship, you understand.”

Stephen smiled beatifically, showing a number of perfect teeth. “I believe I do comprehend entirely,” he said. And he slid the multi banded slingring onto his hand and started making the circling gesture that Tony recognized as opening a portal.

“Alarm all you like,” Tony said as golden sparks flickered into life, “just don’t _scream_.” He linked his arms reassuringly (he hoped) through Rhodey’s and Pepper’s as the portal formed. “Come on, it’s perfectly safe,” he said quickly, before either of them could start asking questions and while they were too stunned to really dig in their heels. He tugged them through the portal and into the atrium of the London Sanctum.

“There, safe as houses,” Stephen said. “Welcome to the London Sanctum.”

Rhodey’s eyes were so wide that Tony could see the whites all the way around. “Do I even want to know what you’ve gotten mixed up with? Are they _witches_?”

Wong scowled. “No. No pointy hats.”

“Sorcerers,” Tony admitted. “But the good kind! No cavorting with the Devil or anything like that.” He hoped they wouldn’t see another homunculus. “They saved me, like I told you,” he promised. “And now I’m helping them with a... well _quest_ sounds a bit overdramatic, but it fits.”

“Quest is a perfectly good word,” Stephen said. “It describes the situation exactly as it is. A series of tasks toward a common goal for the greater good. Although my greater good needs _tea_ right now, and perhaps biscuits, and toast. If you will, this way?”

“Come on, it’s fine,” Tony promised, pulling his friends along behind Stephen and leaving Wong to bring up the undoubtedly-suspicious rear. “This isn’t even the worst thing you’ve caught me doing.”

Tony wasn’t sure what it said about him that they didn’t argue that point. The main hallways of the Sanctum were filled with display cases that housed items that made Tony’s skin tingle. Beautiful as some of them were, they were also esoteric, magical, and in some cases, downright disturbing. Like the strips of metal that looked like a particularly violent sort of straight jacket, or a rock that continually melted into a puddle and reformed.

But the library there was much the same as the library in Hong Kong, and Tony found himself almost relaxing into it. Stephen made tea, and brought them all cups of it, good, rich, black tea that woke a body right up.

“That’s almost as good as coffee,” Tony sighed happily, toasting Stephen with his cup before taking another sip. “Okay,” he said. “Before we get into the _weird_ stuff, tell me what’s been going on here. I thought you were _dead_ , sugar blossom.”

Rhodey huffed out a breath. “Never thought I’d say this, but the pirates did us a favor. Spanish warship saw the smoke on the horizon from the fire. Came to pick through the wreckage, look for survivors. We almost had us a full-on naval incident when the _Santa Clara_ tried to dock in Felixstowe. Guess old grudges die hard, but we got it settled, sent the Clara on her way with a hefty reward payment.”

“Which we then had to argue with,” Pepper added. “Obadiah had declared both of you deceased, and therefore unable to sign for any such reward.”

Tony frowned. He counted days in his head, then glanced at the calendar on the wall to double-check. “So soon? We were only out of touch for a few weeks, maybe a month. Unless someone had news of the attack, but the only people who knew about it were us and the pirates, so...” He shook his head.

Pepper made a show of looking around the Sanctum. “This is a secure location? We’re certain?”

Stephen made a soft chuckle. “Well, no place is entirely secure, but the apprentices and masters of the Sanctum are more concerned with otherworldly matters, rather than simple commerce.”

“You suspect something,” Tony guessed. “What? Who?”

“I’ve been investigating, _quietly_ ,” Rhodey said. “Merchant routes are generally secure. Only the captain and a few trusted officers know where on the map we’ll be at any given time. And even that depends on weather and tides, but if someone leaked that information… well, let’s just say I don’t think it was an accident than Ten Rings found us.”

“We’re still looking for evidence of collusion,” Pepper said. “It’s a very serious accusation. Aiding pirates, barratry, treason, even. Without some form of proof?”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “What’s barratry?”

“Gross negligence of a ship at the expense of its owner,” Pepper told him. “If the captain put you in the way of pirates, or a lower crewman leaked the route, or the ship’s quartermaster didn’t stock enough water. Things like that. It’s a catch-all legal term for ‘we don’t like what you did to our ship, sir.’”

“I ought to swear barratry against you for the mere _existence_ of your ship,” Tony told Stephen, grinning, but the amusement didn’t last long. He turned back to Pepper. “You think there’s something to find? I certainly didn’t tell the pirates where to find us.” He sucked his lip between his teeth. “They holed the water casks, Pep. Why would they kill everyone, including the crew member they were working with? That just means they wouldn’t be told of any future...” His eyes widened and he shook his head. “You think it was Obie.”

“We don’t have any proof,” Rhodey said, shaking his head. “Stane’s been with the company his whole life. I don’t want to believe it.”

“Occam’s razor,” Pepper said. “The simplest answer is likely to be the correct one. But we need evidence, if we’re going to bring an accusation. Suspicion alone isn’t enough. Obadiah has friends in positions of power. We need ironclad proof, or all we do is warn him.”

Tony couldn’t wrap his head around it. Obie had practically _raised_ him. But he couldn’t shake the memory, either, of Obie wrapping an arm around his shoulders, the night before they’d left, when Obie had given him the ring that had turned out to be a disguised Spin, and saying, “Now, m’boy, be careful of that bauble. It’s worth more than you know. I’m counting on you to keep it out of the hands of pirates and thieves.”

More memories followed hard on the heels of that one, a dozen instances of Obie offering to take the work of Stark Industries off Tony’s hands so Tony could spend more time in the workshop -- or out drinking and wenching. And before that, even, Obie siding with Tony against Howard when Howard had wanted to show Tony the ropes. “Plenty of time for him to learn that later, Howard,” Obie had rumbled. “Let the boy have some fun, enjoy his youth.”

Tony had always thought Obie was helping... but what if he’d merely been trying to edge Tony out of the way?

He pressed his fingers into his temples to try to stave off the pounding headache he could feel rising. “I... I hope you’re wrong,” he told Pepper. “But keep looking. Carefully. If you do find something, tell no one but me or Rhodey.”

“ _Someone_ was responsible for what happened,” Pepper said. She was always so neat, prim, proper. Everything that was good and elegant, but at the moment, Tony was impressed by how much she resembled a bird of prey. “And I will find them. And they will be brought to justice.”

Rhodey just grinned. “She’s amazing, isn’t she? I’m amazed. Awed. Constantly. If women were allowed in the military, she’d be the mightiest general on the planet. Don’t you think so?”

“Hush, Jim.”

“He’s right,” Tony said, smiling fondly at Pepper. “But still -- especially if it’s Obie, be careful. He’s got a lot of powerful friends.”

“I’ll be careful,” Pepper said. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“That will be all, Ms. Potts.”

“All right, now out with _your_ end of things,” Rhodey said.

“Let’s see, where to begin...” Tony tapped at his chest, then decided it might as well start there. He started unbuttoning his shirt. “I’d apologize for being shocking,” he told Pepper, “but this is probably the least shocking thing you’ve seen me do.” He pulled the shirt open just far enough to reveal Spin, nestled smugly in his sternum. “It starts with this.”

***

“I begin to understand the appeal of Mordo’s choices,” Stephen said. The speed with which Stark and Sons acquired a horse, sword, and practice space for Tony was impressive. Even in his best days, when Stephen had money, a home, a mistress, he didn’t have anything like this. “You should at least look like you know what you’re doing, even if you don’t.” He watched as Tony clambered up the side of the high pommeled war saddle and Stephen strapped the casings closed around his legs.

“This is considerably higher than my usual mount,” Tony observed, wriggling until he was settled comfortably.

“There are no rules of honor against using the advantages you have,” Stephen told him, patting Tony’s calf reassuringly. “If you take a tumble, Spin will keep you from hitting the ground. In fact, you may wish to practice with her. A well aimed wind gust will knock an opponent out of their saddle as well as a lance.”

“Good point,” Tony said. He touched Spin, and his eyes went distant and dreamy. “Wake up, darling, it’s time to play.” He didn’t say anything aloud for a moment, but Stephen got the impression he was talking to the ring, perhaps explaining their purpose, or coaxing her into doing what they wanted. “Okay, I think we’re good to go,” he finally said.

Stephen gestured and a series of outlines sprang up around the practice field, targets to hit, opponents to clash with. All would act as if real enemies, but couldn’t be harmed, nor harm Tony. “Have at, Sir Knight.” He stepped away from the horse, trying not to notice how tall, proud, and handsome Tony seemed from that angle. How very… perfect.

Stephen shook his head. It was no good wondering about that sort of thing. When this quest was done Tony would go back to his life in the mundane world, and Stephen would be only one of dozens of watchers and guardians for the Ring. They would stay friends, of course, but it would not be… it would be nothing like the close relationship they had now.

“What, you’re not going to give me a favor to carry into battle?” Tony quipped, but he said it almost absently, eyes narrowing as he looked over the targets. “Right, let’s do this.”

He waited for Stephen to take another step back, then kicked the horse into motion, drawing his sword as he charged toward the nearest target. He swung -- and missed, nearly overbalancing, but managed to right himself and wheel around for another pass. This time he managed a solid blow. The horse danced to the side and then carried him on to the next target.

Tony laughed delightedly. “I’ve never sat a beast so responsive!” he called. “I may never ride anything else again!”

“Well, that’s a pity,” Stephen murmured. “You do quite well, then.” He said that part louder, admiring Tony’s form in the saddle. Admiring Tony, really, who was he even kidding? _I read too many of the wrong kinds of books as a child,_ he decided firmly. Romantic notions, good God.

Tony continued to dart around their mock battlefield, swinging at the targets. He only connected about half the time to start, but Stephen could see him correcting his seat and his swing with each new attempt, getting a feel for the method of it. After a time, he started visibly using Spin as well -- targets were blown over rather than struck, and once he leaned much further out of the saddle than seemed possible, barely connected with the beast at all, using Spin for balance and support until he re-seated himself with a loud, “Ha!”

Stephen watched, raptly, as Tony conquered the field of battle, an odd excitement beating behind his rib cage. Finally, “Come along, Lord Stark,” he yelled. “You cannot be about this all day. The horse, at least, must rest.”

He offered Tony a hand down from his horse, catching him when his feet hit the ground and wobbled a bit with sudden weariness. Stephen glanced up and noticed those amber-brown eyes, glinting with excitement and triumph, and it speared him right through the chest.

_Oh._

_Oh, damn._

Tony didn’t seem to notice Stephen’s sudden epiphany, thank God. He clapped Stephen on the arm companionably and said, “Well, that worked up an appetite. Let’s get this beauty taken care of and then scrounge up some dinner, yeah?”

“Why scrounge?” Stephen wondered. “Be all things delightful and treat me to an evening’s meal in the finest tavern in London. Seems only fair, somehow.” Was he flirting, and if he was, would Tony even notice? Ug. Decidedly too many of the wrong sorts of books.

Tony did cast him an odd look at that, but he didn’t say whatever it was he was thinking. He rubbed the horse’s nose affectionately and then swept a bow, graceful and elegant. “Your wish,” he promised.


	10. Chapter 10

The royal tourney stadium was enormous, noisy, colorful, and pungent. Wong knew a location not ten miles outside of the city, and they were able to make their way on horseback in a single afternoon.

For a change, Wong and Stephen, in their bright and flowing robes -- along with Stephen’s enthusiastic cape -- did not look out of place. Many of the noble guests competed with each other for brightest color, most elaborate gown, and, astonishingly enough, most ridiculous hairstyle. If Tony was not much mistaken, that woman’s hair was curled like a mock of the sea and had an actual model boat in it. It looked somewhat more seaworthy than the sorcerer’s ship.

“Stephen!” someone hollered as they approached the lists. A compact, trim man wearing robes that matched the style, if not the color, of Stephen’s, a deep, forest green that complimented his dark skin.

“Karl,” Stephen said, and the two men embraced, Stephen cupping the side of his friend’s face. Stephen rested his forehead against his friend’s, eyes closed and expression relaxing minutely. “Are you well, old friend?”

“As well as can be expected,” he answered. “You look… very well.”

“Allow me to introduce my champion,” Stephen said, but he barely took his hands off the man. “This is Tony Stark, knight and ringbearer of Spin. Tony, my dear friend, Karl Mordo. We’ve spoken of him before.”

Indeed they had, though Stephen had neglected to mention that his _dear friend_ was so young and handsome. And handsy. Tony suppressed, for the third time in barely a minute, the urge to slap Mordo’s hand away from Stephen’s shoulder. He gritted his teeth and offered his hand instead. “A pleasure to finally meet you,” he managed, and reminded himself that he had no right to any sort of jealousy.

“Yes, perhaps it will be,” Mordo said. His grip was firm, fingers strong, and his muscles were visible even through the robes. “So, a ring bearer. You waste no time, Stephen.”

“The Ancient One left Kamar-Taj under my protection,” Stephen said. “I would be doing her legacy shame if I let the moss grow under my feet.”

“That was only once,” Mordo said, “and under great duress.”

“He took a dare to mediate for almost a month straight, to answer a single question,” Stephen explained with a laugh. “There was, literally, moss growing on him when he was done.”

Tony tried to imagine it, and could not. He could barely sit still long enough to comb his hair. “Sounds tedious,” he said. “Did you get your question answered?”

“We came to somewhat different conclusions,” Mordo said. “This one cannot clear his head enough to see. He puts his body to sleep and goes soul walking in order to study more, faster. Never could learn enough to see that sometimes, the simplest answers, are the ones that come from within.”

“We’re not starting this argument again,” Stephen said. “Honor the truce and let me be glad to see you. Where is your champion? We should get some measure of the man.”

“As you say, Stephen,” Mordo said. He was quite a bit shorter than Stephen -- most were, Stephen being unreasonably tall -- and he stepped up on his toes for a moment to brush his lip near Stephen’s ear, either telling him something secret, or perhaps, kissing his cheek, Tony couldn’t tell.

Tony’s teeth would be ground to dust before the end of the tourney, at this rate. “I’m surprised you’re not entering the lists yourself,” he said. “You seem sturdy enough.” And it would give Tony an opportunity to knock Mordo over.

“As the phrase goes,” Mordo said, leading them off toward a gaudy tent from which came the sounds of music and drunken laughing, “there is more than one way to skin a cat.”

Inside the tent was a party of epic proportions, and Tony knew parties. Wenches and beer and music and dancing, food of every sort, and even exotic entertainments like opium pipes were being passed around. In the middle of it all was a dark-blonde man who was barely on the edge of handsome, and decidedly skating the territory of trying too hard.

“Lord Justin,” Mordo called. “Come and speak with my guests.”

“Karl!” Lord Justin exclaimed, dragging the word out interminably before letting it finally escape his lips. “My good friend! And who have we here?” His lips pulled back from his teeth in something approaching a smile as he looked both Tony and Stephen over from head to toe, appraising.

“A contender to the championship, Tony Stark,” Mordo said, “and his pocket magician, Doctor Strange.”

“Sorcerer,” Stephen corrected, a little stiff. “The Sorcerer Supreme, as a matter of fact. Quite a bit more than just a magician.” The Cloak’s collar stood up a little, as if bristling in offense.

Tony couldn’t help the small thrill of enjoyment that caused, but he offered his hand. Lord Justin’s palms were sweaty, and his grip was weak. Tony was already dismissing the man from mind as any kind of threat. “May the best man win.”

“Everyone else might as well pack up and go home then,” Lord Justin said, sly, and chuckled at his own humor.

Tony tried not to visibly roll his eyes.

Stephen smirked. “Yes, indeed, they should,” he said. “I believe Stark will carry the day.”

“Are we making another bet, Stephen?”

Stephen’s eyebrow shot up. “What are the stakes, then? Because of course you will back your… employer. But I shall support my friend, and perhaps that is a prize well worth winning.”

“There are some few items that belong to me that remain in your care, Stephen,” Mordo said. “I would have them back, to come home, one last time.”

“It was not I who closed that door, but yes, you are welcome.”

Tony wondered what the history was, here, but this was not the time to ask, if ever such a time existed. “I believe I’ll go back to our camp,” he said. “Coming, Stephen?”

“Yes, of course,” Stephen said. “A delight to make your acquaintance, Lord Justin. I expect great things from you.” They turned to go, and the Cloak practically smothered Tony, curling around his shoulder possessively, squeezing him against Stephen’s side.

“What has gotten into you, you temperamental drapery?” Stephen wondered.

Tony staggered a little, then found his balance again, laughing. “I don’t think your cloak likes our opponents very much.” He didn’t try to pull away, letting the Cloak’s peculiar behavior give him an excuse to walk pressed close enough to feel Stephen’s warmth.

“I’m dutifully underwhelmed by your competition,” Stephen said. “I’m sure Wong has set up a tent for us, with all necessary flamboyance. Let us find it. Tomorrow will be a long, and no doubt, difficult day.”

The Cloak kept nudging them, until Stephen’s arm was around Tony’s shoulders, and they were walking at the same pace, and then the fabric radiated smugness, like a cat in sunshine.

***

The silver cries of trumpets split the morning sky, more sound and fury than should be allowed before lunch, Stephen decided. He put the finishing touches on the knot, and tucked it into his pocket.

Tony had already been awake, much longer than he probably thought was necessary, to get ready.

“You’re going to have to be wary, during the melee,” he told Tony, as Wong was helping him with the armor. “I’ve been told several alliances are formed, so it will not be one against all, but smaller groups against those who are friendless in this particular contest. Do not hesitate when you have an opportunity.” Holding to his own advice, he plucked the knot from his pocket and handed it over. “Here.”

A simple braid, cut from Stephen’s blue master’s tunic, a donated strip of the Cloak’s lining, and some of the rope from their ship, bound together in a rosette, with a ribbon to bind it around Tony’s upper arm.

Tony took it and looked it over curiously, then grinned in sudden understanding. “Took me at my word about that favor, did you?” He handed it back and held out his arm. “Go on, tie it on, then.”

Wong glanced at the knot briefly and then gave Stephen a long, wordless look, one eyebrow raised.

Stephen forcibly did not glare at Wong, did not acknowledge Wong. Even if he was right. Damn it.

“You are my champion, after all,” Stephen said, keeping it light, almost flirty. He bound the strip of ribbon onto the armor, arranging the knot just so. “I’ll not bore you with my rendition of a rousing speech. Do well. Try not to get hurt.”

“The pointy end of the sword goes in the other guy,” Wong added.

When Tony laughed, his entire face lit up, and it was quite beautiful. Stephen leaned in and impulsively kissed the second set of dimples on his cheek.

Tony fell silent, staring at him in startled wonder. “...Right,” he said after a few heartbeats of hesitation. “I’d better go. Onward to glory, and all that.”

Stephen waited a long moment, until he was certain that Tony was out of earshot, then pointed a crooked finger at Wong. “Not a word. Don’t say what you’re thinking. Don’t even _think_ what you’re thinking.”

“I see,” Wong said.

“No, you don’t see, there’s nothing to see,” Stephen protested.

“Except the match, which we will miss, if you continue to act like a schoolboy with a crush,” Wong remarked.

Well, there was probably no recovering from that, and Stephen did want to watch the match, even if he was more than a little nervous. No need to be; Tony was a talented fighter, and he had an edge. And people were rarely killed in the melee. Stephen had been promised.

They went to take their seats.

Seats were not exactly what was there -- hard to tell if the melee was out in the field, or behind the lines were viewers and peasants and nobles alike pushed and shoved their way to the best possible viewing spots.

They finally made their way, with a little judicious use of sorcery, to the line, Stephen looked up to see a large number of well-armed and well-armored warriors getting ready to charge at each other, all looking eager for bloodshed.

Tony, among them, looked almost petite in his simple armor. Fragile, though Stephen knew he was anything but. The dragoniron armor was unembellished -- and practically unbreakable, Stephen reminded himself.

Tony drew his sword and one of the champions actually pointed and laughed -- the champion’s sword was nearly twice as long, a thick-steeled monstrosity that looked more like a bludgeon than a blade. Tony merely pointed the tip of his sword at the mocking man and grinned wickedly before closing the faceplate of his helmet.

The signal was given, and it seemed every fighter leapt into action in the same instant. Stephen lost sight of Tony for a second, two, and then there he was, ducking under the enormous sword and knocking its wielder into the mud.

This was nothing like watching Tony ride at the practice targets. There was little of grace or technique about his movements now; they were harsh and fast and brutal. Spin was glowing more brightly in Tony’s chest than Stephen had ever seen it.

It was hard to keep track of what was happening -- already there were downed men crawling for the edge of the melee ring, warriors standing back-to-back against all comers or sweeping the ring in a wall-like formation. Tony was one of only a few who seemed to have no allies.

Around Stephen, the crowds were screaming and cheering, until it felt nearly like being in a melee himself. He caught a glimpse of Lord Justin, brandishing an unbloodied sword from behind two hulking brutes who seemed to have taken up bodyguard positions.

One man nearly knocked Tony over, but he recovered -- Spin’s doing, no doubt -- and swept the man’s legs from under him. A trio of allies bore down on him as he regained his balance. “Look out!” Stephen yelled, with no hope of being heard over the general roar.

“Do not chew your fingernails off,” Wong advised, watching impassively.

Tony turned in time to block the trio’s attacks, and a blast from Spin knocked the middle fighter away.

Stephen scanned the crowd for Karl, but couldn't find him. That was odd. Why wouldn't he be there to cheer on his champion or to support his employer?

A shiver, unpleasant and suspicious, twisted though his guts. He glared at the melee, nothing more than a goddamn _distraction_. “Wong. He's after the rings.”

“You are just now figuring this out?” Wong never looked impressed.

“I mean now!” Stephen spat. “Karl's not here. Where else would he be?” He spared a worried glance back at the melee. But there was nothing he could do for Tony.

“They are well protected,” Wong said. “And _you_ are here.”

“He doesn't know that, though. We must catch him.”

“For what? To warn him? You know he will not listen.”

“I’m not warning him of anything, but if he sees that I have not put it together, or that I’m not concerned, he’ll know he’s barking up the wrong tree. Come on, let’s go, now. We have to hurry.” There was no room there to open a portal, not without knocking half the crowd into their tent, and probably getting arrested for devil worship and witchcraft (again, but at least this time he might deserve it.) With a shove, Stephen pushed toward the back of the throng of viewers. It took a moment to get going, but once people realized that they were leaving, they tried harder to get out of the way, taking up the space left behind with glee.

“Damn him,” Stephen swore, once they broke free of the crowd. “And damn me for thinking he really wanted another chance.”

“Your faith in the better nature of men is one of your most prevalent characteristics.”

That didn’t exactly sound like a compliment.

It should have been impossible for a man as solidly-built as Wong to appear unobtrusive, and Stephen had still not worked out whether it was some sort of magic he employed to make himself seem unremarkable, or if he was simply that good at blending in with whatever happened to be nearby, but as they approached their little camp, he faded into the background, giving Stephen a significant “you go first” look.

The inside of their tent was wrecked, the straw stuffed mattresses torn open, clothes everywhere, and Mordo in the middle of all of it, clutching Stephen’s puzzle box, trying to solve it.

“Looking for something, old friend?” Stephen sighed. He would have rather been wrong.

“You are corrupted,” Mordo said. “You don’t deserve them.”

“Am I?” Stephen wondered. “Corrupted? As a student of the Ancient One for only a few years, and it was I who realized how she drew on the power of the Dark Dimension to extend her life. You trained under her for decades, and never once, until I said a word, knew. Who, I wonder, is the corrupted one?”

He didn’t, actually, wonder it at all. He was a _doctor_ , and he knew sometimes good tissue had to be cut away to keep that which was healthy alive. He was a doctor, he had taken an oath to save lives. To extend lives. He would not do what the Ancient One did, but he couldn’t deny her right to do it.

“What do you accuse me of?” Runes raced up Mordo’s arm, setting his shields alight. Weapons of thought formed, grasped in one hand.

“Nothing,” Stephen said. “Only of being too rigid, too set in dark and light, without seeing the world as it is.”

“Give it up, Mordo,” Wong said from the tentflap, golden shields in his hands. “You can’t resist both of us.”

“You don’t deserve it,” Mordo said, and he was practically weeping. “You’re not worthy.”

“I assure you, I am,” Stephen said. “Give me the box. Give me the box, and you can go. Fight another day.”

“You think I believe you’ll just let me walk away?”

“I swore an oath to save lives,” Stephen said. “Not to take them.”

“You became a doctor to save one life. Your own,” Mordo spat. “Everything you do comes back to your ego, your steadfast belief that you can control anything. Everything. Even that which must not be controlled.”

“Still see right through me, do you?” Stephen marvelled. Had he not, even yet, proved himself? At least on this point? “Give me the box. And go.”

Mordo snarled, raised his eyes to glare at Wong, then shoved the box at Stephen, stepping backward into a slung portal as he went.

Stephen closed his hands around the box. “Well, that was close,” he said. “To think, he might have gotten away with my breakfast tea.”

Wong sniffed. “If you call that tea.”

A sudden surge in the noise from the melee field resolved itself into cheering. “That’ll be the end,” Wong said. “We should go find out if we’re still in the running or if we’re going to have to steal the ring.”

_Tony._

In the fuss, Stephen had almost -- not quite, but almost -- forgotten that Tony was in danger. “Will this day never end?”

“Trust you, to complain about _time_ ,” Wong muttered.

_***_

A melee was particularly unfair in that the longer you lasted and the more tired you got, the more skilled were the opponents you faced. Tony was sweltering inside his armor despite the cool morning, his breath loud in his ears even over the clash of combat and the yelling of the crowds. He’d have been skewered half a dozen times if it weren’t for his armor; as it was, he was battered and bruised.

A shadow warned him barely in time for him to turn and face another fighter, sword already upraised. He had no time to block or parry or even dodge, but a surge of momentary panic motivated Spin to blast the man out of the way. He lifted his sword and turned to look for the next opponent.

The strident blast of a horn brought him up short. It repeated. Again. Three blasts meant the melee was done.

Finished.

He’d done it.

Tony sagged, panting for breath, and dragged the helmet off his head to breath cooler air as he surveyed his fellow finalists.

They were three: Tony, of course. Lord Justin, who barely looked winded, his hair casually tousled in the breeze, almost as fresh as if he’d just come from the bath, and Tony wondered if that was what he was paying Mordo for. That had to be some sort of magic; evil, dark magic, at that. And a dark skinned woman with white face paint whose sword was almost as tall as she was. She leaned on the crosspiece negligently and fished around inside her armor for a flask. “Drink?” She offered it to Tony. “You fight good.”

“Thanks.” Tony took the flask and toasted her with it, then sniffed cautiously before tossing back a swallow. “You, too.” He had, in fact, noted her early on and done his level best to stay on the opposite side of the field from her.

“This part’s the most fun,” she declared. “Jousting is so stupid.” She scanned the crowd, then waved vigorously at a brightly dressed man in a golden robe, a pretty young man clinging to his arm. “My sponsors. I should go. I’ll see you in the lists!”

He waved, then looked around for Stephen and Wong.

He didn’t see them. Well, maybe they’d wound up behind the bulk of the crowds; Stephen was often too polite for his own good. He waited as the crowd dispersed, watching. Still no Stephen. Still no Wong.

Where were they?

Lord Justin was nearby, celebrating vigorously with a handful of women, but Mordo was nowhere to be seen, either. “Tony, mind if I call you Tony,” Justin bellowed, “come and join us, wouldn’t you like that, ladies? I think there’s enough to go around.” Whether Justin was referring to the girls, or to bits and pieces of _Tony_ , Tony wasn’t certain.

“Maybe some other time,” Tony said. He couldn’t imagine what might have happened to them -- well, no, he _could_ imagine, and that was the problem. He found a rag to clean off his sword and stuffed it in its sheath, then started heading in the direction of their camp at... well, he was too tired to run, but a very brisk walk.

“Ah, there--” Stephen exclaimed, then, “--are you well, Tony?” He found himself gripped by the arm and inspected by a pair of concerned green-blue eyes. “I apologize, we missed it.”

“They will try for him, next,” Wong said, appearing as if from nowhere. “To take by force the ring that we cannot guard as well.”

“They’ll find that trickier than they suppose,” Tony promised. “The good news is, I’m one of the finalists. The bad news is, so is Justin.”

“Of course,” Stephen said. “Be careful of that one. If he’s working with Mordo, and Mordo is after the rings, they are both more dangerous than, perhaps, they might seem.” Stephen’s hands were still wandering over the dragoniron, as if anything so common as steel might have scratched it, and then he touched the favor, still tied on, even if it was battered, torn, and splattered with mud and blood. “Brought you some luck, I hope?”

“I suppose it did,” Tony allowed. He grinned. “Let’s hope it keeps working. I’m going to need it when we get to the jousting.”

“I could knock you off your horse,” Wong declared. As if that was news, really.

“I’ll… just go and fetch some liniment, shall I? The physicker’s tent should have some,” Stephen said. He touched Tony’s face and then strode off, looking too serious for what should have been a triumph.

“Mordo,” Wong said, as if that was an explanation.

Maybe it was. “I didn’t see him on the field after the battle,” Tony said. “He didn’t get anything important, did he?”

“He did not get what he was looking for, no,” Wong said. “But I believe he took more than he was after, as well. He was a good man, once. Strange believes that he can be, again. I… am not so sure.”

“What’s the history, there?” Tony wasn’t sure he actually wanted to know, but he was beginning to think it might be necessary.

“They were close,” Wong said. “Mordo was jealous. Of Strange’s power. The Mystic arts can be learned by nearly anyone, but mastered by only a few. Strange… is a master’s master. When he comes to realize his strength, that will be something to see. Mordo’s defection has been painful. For more than just those who cared for him.”

_Close_. It might mean anything, really, and Tony didn’t want to wonder why he cared. “How long has he been... gone?”

“Apparently, not long enough,” Wong said. “Just over two years.”

Tony grunted his understanding. He looked off in the direction Stephen had gone, then shook himself free of his tangled thoughts. “Come and help me out of this armor, would you?”

“That is a good plan,” Wong said.

Which was how Tony happened to be getting into a bath for the second time when Stephen accidentally walked in on him. Not that Tony would accuse Wong of setting him up. Probably.

“Oh.” Stephen came to a halt, Tony with one leg in the tub of steaming water, bending down to grab the rough bar of glycerine soap.

Tony thought about squawking and grabbing for the towel, but he was too sore and tired. He huffed and finished climbing into the tub, sinking slowly down, hissing as the near-scalding water covered his bruised skin. He did drag the washcloth over his lap before reaching for the soap again. “Don’t just stand there with the tent flap open,” he said. “Did they have any liniment?”

“Sorry,” Stephen said, and while he did let go of the tent flap, he just stood there, a brown earthenware jar in one hand. “It’s quite pungent.”

“If it will take the ache out of my muscles, I don’t care what it smells like,” Tony promised. “Bring it over, would you?”

“Your back looks like someone beat you with a very large stick,” Stephen commented. “I imagine that’s about how it feels, too.” He murmured a few words and his hands glowed, soft and orange for a moment. “Here, let me.”

Tony had seen his hands, close up, battered and scarred and bent in all the wrong places, but at the moment, they were long-fingered and graceful, as if he’d never been injured. A pianist’s hands, with an impressive spread. He scooped up some of the liniment and smeared it over one tender bruise.

Tony hissed and wrinkled his nose -- the stuff did smell very strongly -- and then practically melted as it heated Tony’s abused flesh. “Oh, that feels great,” he sighed.

“And yet, now you smell like my grandmother,” Stephen remarked, and Tony could almost see the smile in his voice. Another dollop. “I’ll just-- tip your head forward.” And he rubbed the goo into the back of Tony’s neck, down his spine. Between the bath and the ointment, Tony felt almost human again.

“Mm... Forget the mystic arts, your _hands_ are magic,” Tony purred.

“At one time,” Stephen said. “Now, it takes all my strength to roll back time for these moments. That’s the cost; forget the mystic arts.” He sounded sad, a little. But not enough to stop what he was doing, rubbing the pungent stuff into Tony’s aching back and shoulders. “You did well today. You are growing quite skilled, mastering the ring. Your armor. You will be a force to be reckoned with, someday. Finish your bath, and rub down. I’ll bring dinner. You’ll need your strength, for what lies ahead.”


	11. Chapter 11

Tony hurt all over the next morning. He was convinced that even his hair hurt. At least today’s challenge was the battle of wits.

He lowered himself gingerly into the camp chair by their fire and helped himself to the cup of tea Stephen had been cradling without drinking. “No word yet on what the challenge actually entails?”

“A test of cleverness and resourcefulness.” The dark-skinned woman from yesterday dropped into an easy crouch near their fire. “Is what I have been told. Last time it was to create a device to pour a glass of wine from the top of a set of stairs to the bottom without losing a drop. Using only the items found in the room. Val, by the way. You have anything to drink?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the enemy?” Stephen wondered, squinting at the woman. Normally cheerier in the morning -- well, cheerier than Tony at any rate, which was a pretty low bar, honestly -- Stephen looked as though he hadn’t slept well that night, moodily staring into the fire and listlessly poking at his breakfast.

“You’ve done this before?” Tony asked. He handed Stephen back the tea -- it looked like the sorcerer could use it more than Tony. “How often do these things happen?”

“Many times,” Val said. “There is drinking and gambling and I am making a name for myself. The cash prizes for second and third place winners are nothing to sneeze at, either. It’s for fun, mostly. A contest, a test, nothing more. Certainly --” she scoffed at Stephen “--nothing to make an enemy out of.”

A little camaraderie couldn’t hurt. Tony shuffled through their bags until he came up with a couple of extra drinking cups. “Tea?”

“I suppose it will do,” she said, although her flask came out again and she liberally dosed the tea with what smelled like fermented honey. “You’re new to the circuit. Not even a last minute contender, the bookies can’t decide where to place you. Although that armor is something else. Where’d you get it?”

Tony grinned. “Made it myself,” he said, which wasn’t even a lie. “Is it bad that the thought of upsetting the bookies fills me with delight?”

“Certainly not,” Val said, raising her glass. “Confusion to the bookies and moneylenders, scourge on society and the bane of all honest athletes everywhere.”

Stephen scoffed into his tea cup, and then placed his mouth exactly where Tony’s had rested a moment before. Tony probably didn’t want to be noticing that, but he did, anyway. “I hesitate to call something so petty a _scourge_ ,” he said, “but perhaps no one’s value should be measured in such a manner.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m priceless?” Tony asked, hoping to tease Stephen out of his mood. “Careful, you’ll turn my head with such talk, and then my helmet won’t fit.”

“You already have the full measure of my esteem for you,” Stephen answered.

Wong, who pushed a bowl of porridge and eggs in Tony’s direction, added, “At least enough effort to catch you when you fall off the mast. So, some.”

“Yes, thank you, Wong,” Stephen muttered. He speared a wedge of egg and stuffed it in his mouth, managing to get a runner of yolk down his chin without, apparently, noticing it.

Tony wondered what was upsetting Stephen. Perhaps it was just poor sleep. Tony thanked Wong for the breakfast and began eating. It wasn’t bad. Needed a little salt. “Well, we’ll see how I fare,” he told Val philosophically. “As long as I best Lord Justin, I’ll be content.”

“In all fairness,” she said, “I believe that man could be bested for charm by a wildebeest.”

“I believe you may be right,” Tony agreed, toasting her with his cup.

They didn’t get much more done before the trumpets called the contenders to present. The vast grounds of the melee had been transformed overnight into a series of tents, surrounded by a sea of vendors and stalls.

“Each tent,” the herald announced, “is for one contender. You have four hours to solve your problem. Points awarded for intricacy, originality, use of materials, and timeliness.”

“That’ll be simple,” Val said, wiping her mouth. “Go in, go out, twenty five points. I don’t even have to do anything.”

“I wish you luck,” Tony told Val. He reached into his bag and pulled out the somewhat battered and stained favor Stephen had given him for the melee. He wasn’t wearing any armor today, but he used the ribbon to fasten it to his belt nevertheless.

“You bet,” she said, punching him in the shoulder. She probably meant it in a friendly fashion -- or maybe not -- but she was also almost a foot taller than he was, built like a very curvy cannon, and hit like a mace. “Tomorrow, I’ll kick your ass in the joust.”

“No doubt,” he agreed, and watched her stride off toward the tents. He glanced back at Stephen and Wong. “Any last-minute advice?”

“Don’t choke,” Wong suggested.

“My father was a tailor,” Stephen said. “Measure twice. Cut once.”

“Sound,” Tony agreed. It was advice that applied well to all sorts of tasks. “Right, well. Off I go. Be on the lookout for trickery.”

“Tony--” Stephen took a few rapid steps to catch up with him, snagging Tony’s arm and turning him. He hesitated, then merely said, “Good luck.”

Tony looked at Stephen for a moment, remembering the hasty kiss he had bestowed on Tony’s cheek before the melee. Maybe he regretted that, now. But what the hell; restraint had never been Tony’s best skill. He leaned up and kissed Stephen’s cheek. “Thanks.” He grinned, tossed a sloppy salute to Wong, and then headed for the tents.

He took a glance back, just before entering his tent and Stephen was still standing there, stock still as if he’d been frozen in place, his fingertips pressing to the spot, as if to make the sensation last as long as possible.

Or maybe he was wiping it off. God only knew. Tony shook his head at himself. They’d figure this out. After he figured-- good lord, what even the hell?

The tent was round, a single pole holding it up, more than twice as tall as Tony. At the very top of the pole, resting in a thin curve of glass, was an egg.

“Your task,” the herald told him, “using only what is contained in those crates. Get the egg down without touching it. Or breaking it.”

Tony considered the egg for a moment, the shape of the curve it rested in, and then sighed and went to see what was in the crates.

***

The lady, Val, made a great deal of noise inside her tent, and came out not but twenty minutes later, laughing at the broken egg and calling herself done in a timely manner.

To prevent unsportsmanlike behavior, each tent was left private and well guarded. Lord Justin went in, without any of his usual swagger, which didn’t seem like the man at all. He certainly would have been blustering, even if he was dreading the outcome, so his calm demeanor was suspect.

“I don’t think Spin will do any good,” Stephen mused, after hearing the description of the challenge. Spin was not delicate, or graceful. Even the lowest of her blasts would crack an egg -- well, like an egg, Stephen supposed.

“We’ll have to hope he’s as smart as he thinks he is, then,” Wong said. “Gods help us.”

Stephen shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think he may be even smarter than that. But I don’t trust this scenario. Come, let’s find a place to sit and you can keep an eye on me. I want to have a look around.”

It took longer than Stephen would have liked to find a safe place where he could remove his soul from his body and walk in the astral plane. But the nice thing about not having his flesh with him is that he was free of pain, and free of constraints. Doors, locks, solid objects held no barrier in the astral realm. He willed himself aloft and floated amongst the crowd, seeing those few items of power that some carried, a strong spirit, a brilliant mind, each stood out from their surroundings like a silver flame.

Which was not, he decided firmly, the sort of person Justin of the Hammer would be. There was nothing at all about the man that should have been coated in such an aura.

So, he was either not what he seemed.

Or, perhaps, not _who_ he seemed. An all-over body illusion would cast a similar glow. On the other hand, if it was Mordo, pretending to be Hammer for the purposes of winning the contest, he might see Stephen. Mordo was no fool, keeping an eye out for all dangers would not be beyond him.

Stephen bypassed Justin’s tent for the moment, and stuck his head through the fabric of Tony’s. He was not, he told himself firmly, going to _help_. That would be cheating, and expressing doubt in Tony’s abilities. He was just going to look.

What he hadn’t expected was to be nearly blinded by Tony’s aura, brilliant red and gold, like a god at the forge. He stared, blinking in the light that Tony threw off, that genius mind, that quick wit, each one written large around him.

He was humming softly under his breath as he fitted several pieces of wood together, bracing them between his knees as he reached for hammer and nails. Stephen had no idea how the resulting gadget would fit into the series of poles and string and -- was that a candle? And a... teapot? -- but Tony seemed confident enough.

Stephen took several steps into the room, drawn to the blaze that was Tony like a moth to a lamp, fluttering around it in just the same manner. He couldn’t reveal himself, not without jostling Tony’s arm, perhaps to a fatal degree, but-- he couldn’t quite help reaching for the man, putting one insubstantial hand on Tony’s shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie. And perhaps something more.

He’d spent the entire night haunted by Tony’s words about his hands. Did Tony also think he wasn’t worthy of the power he was attempting to control?

Only toward the dawn had it occurred to him that Tony might have had other, less pure, designs on Stephen’s fingertips, and that thought was enough to drive the remnants of sleep right out the tent flap and away for good.

Tony glanced up and looked around, as if he could sense Stephen’s presence. Then he glanced toward the door where the herald guarded the space so Tony wouldn’t be disturbed -- or helped. He shook his head and went back to his work, still humming.

Reassured that Tony was not in peril, and making progress, Stephen brushed ghostly fingers over Tony’s face. “Next time,” he said, “you’ll not get away with kissing my cheek.” That was a fact, he was going to take the very next opportunity to kiss Tony breathless.

He flitted away; not to the next tent, but to see if he could find any traces of Hammer’s mundane aura. He might not be able to confront Mordo in such a manner, but if he could bring someone’s attention to the lack of Hammer in the other tent, surely that would warrant an investigation? Stephen threw himself into the air, to better view the grounds, and to get a feel for the layout, and to sense any dead spots, or hidden pocket dimensions.

There was nothing. Nothing.

That was absurd. Surely, Mordo would have had to stash the man--

The Mirror Dimension.

Good lord, the poor idiot would be insane, faced with that place and the inability to escape from it.

Stephen hurried back to his body.

***

From time to time, there were groans and yells outside the tents. Tony assumed this was failure on the part of some of his other competitors, but the herald wouldn’t let him outside to see (that would be forfeiting the match) and the man seemed to take some sort of delightful, malicious glee in looking out, coming back into the tent to appear as a smug bastard, and not telling him what was going on.

Tony grumbled and huffed and went back to his building. The device itself was relatively simple; the hardest part was sanding out the curved base where the egg would, eventually come to rest. Finally, it was done.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m ready. Do I just... do it, or do you need to get judges first, or what?”

The herald pointed a stern finger at him. “You wait here, I will get the judges. Do not step outside the tent.”

There was yelling and screaming as the herald left the tent again; Tony wasn’t sure if there was an announcement or what, but footsteps and the crowd sounded like it was moving his way.

Three judges: the monarch who was sponsoring the event, his advisor, and his daughter. The daughter was the only one who actually eyed his contraption with interest, but they all looked up, to watch. A fourth man, beady eyed and carrying a sketch pad, started scribbling frantically, making notes of what items Tony had used, what still remained in the crates, and his apparent method.

“Please demonstrate your device, Mr. Stark.”

“Right, let me just...” Tony picked up a long pole and propped it carefully against the tentpole, just under the cradle in which the egg rested. It took a little nudging to get the egg to start rolling down the track he’d built for it, but once it got moving, it all went almost exactly the way it had unfolded in his mind.

The egg rolled, gently bumping along, its pace kept sedate by the minor obstacles in its path. There was a bit of a wait at one point while the candle took a little longer to burn through a string than Tony had anticipated, and the teakettle nearly upended itself instead of pouring steadily, but in the end, the egg finally rocked and wobbled into the shallow depression at the judges’ feet. Tony beamed -- not bad, for a contraption he hadn’t been able to test -- and swept a bow.

The judges conferred, openly, right in front of him. Not that it mattered, Tony didn’t speak their native tongue. The girl appeared to be arguing with her elders, pointing stringently at the series of -- now depleted but easily replicable obstacles.

“It will work,” she said, finally, in English. “Full points from me.”

With a quick smile, she glanced at Tony. “Well done, sir.”

Tony bowed again, somewhat less florid this time. “Thank you.”

The marks were tallied, measured. “Eighty-seven, out of one hundred.”

Well, that was… good. Not great, but… there was a hasty conversation, and then, “Lord Hammer’s work is done, the final work to be viewed.”

“You can go and join the viewers, now,” the herald told him and they left him alone in the tent.

There was more yelling outside.

Tony gave his contraption one last look, then went to join the crowd gathered around Lord Justin’s tent. He couldn’t get close enough to see any of the device, much less gauge its worth, but at least he was close enough to hear the tally when they came out again a few minutes later.

The herald gestured for quiet -- not that he got it, but the fevered excitement of the crowd died back to a dull roar -- and announced, “For the battle of wits, the winner declared is... Lord Justin of Hammer, with ninety points! In second place, Mr. Stark, with eighty-seven! In third--”

Tony didn’t hear the rest of it. There was a rushing in his ears, a rumble of doom and failure that was all too familiar. How? _How_ could he have been bested by that... overfed, pasty-faced, pompous--

“Your Majesty--” That was Stephen, pushing through the crowd, staggering, really. There was a lump of brightly colored -- was he carrying a person? “I believe I have something here that might add to your deliberations, before a winner is declared.”

He threw the bundle -- well, it was a person -- to the ground in front of the judges and nudged him over onto his back with one booted foot. “I believe Lord Justin might be, rightly, accused of cheating. Your majesty.”

The man on the ground was assuredly Justin, eyes rolled back up in his head, a little blood under his nose, conscious, but obviously unaware of his surroundings.

Tony pushed forward. “Then who,” he demanded, “is in Lord Hammer’s tent?” On the far side of the crowd, he caught sight of Val, her eyes narrowed.

The woman nodded at him, quick, and ducked under the flap of Lord Hammer’s tent, drawing steel as she went. It was one thing, Tony thought, for her to deliberately blow the contest, and yet another to be cheated out of a win.

A moment later, she was pushing through the front, Mordo just ahead of her jabbing blade. “A trick, your majesty,” she said. “And not even a sporting one, as I also found evidence--” She held out her hand, dripping yellow yolk down her wrist. “--that he did not even fulfill the task!”

Mordo glared at her, then at the knife, the comatose knight on the ground, the judges. His eyes narrowed further as he singled out Stephen, near the front of the crowd.

“Still think I’m not worthy, Karl?” Stephen wondered. “Or were you too busy looking in a _mirror_?”

Tony made his way to Stephen’s side, and couldn’t resist toeing the unconscious Lord Justin in the ribs. “Cheating swine,” he said, loud enough for the crowd to hear it and take it up.

Stephen jerked, twisting his hands together in a sudden gesture. “Tony, watch it--”

There was a riot of noise, screams and the crashing as if of thunder right on top of them. The air exploded into a million pale blue butterflies.

Val screamed, a strange and eerie sound in the middle of general panic.

“Damn,” Stephen said. “Tony, take my hand. We don’t have much-- well, time.” One handed, Stephen gestured and the green locket around his neck twisted, opened, emitting brilliant, emerald light. “I’m taking us back. Don’t come to me, go to her--”

Frozen, on what was now a general battlefield, Val was dying, the pole from Lord Hammer’s tent directly through her chest.

The world seemed to move backward, a few jagged seconds at a time.

“What are you doing?” Tony demanded. “They’ll hang us both as witches!”

“They won’t see it,” Stephen said. “No one will. Go to her, Tony. Save her.”

Tony gritted his teeth and nodded. As soon as that green light faded, Tony shoved his way through the crowd. “...too busy looking in a _mirror_?” he heard Stephen say, and this time he was close enough to see the twisted rage in Mordo’s face. He pushed past a few more people, ignoring their curses and insults, and let momentum carry him straight into Val, catching her by surprise and knocking them both to the ground.

There was screaming, the sound of thunder crashing. Something smacked him hard across the back -- the pole as it fell. It would leave a bruise, more than likely -- ow! -- but that was all. The air exploded and was filled with millions of pale blue butterflies.

There was more screaming, and Tony managed to get his chin up, just long enough to see Mordo ripping a hole in reality. “You’ve won this round, little man,” Mordo spat. “But we’ll see it done soon enough.”

He stepped through the hole and was gone.

Val was staring at him, wonder and awe and fear in those brown eyes. “What… that didn’t happen. It _didn’t_.”

“It didn’t,” Tony agreed. He climbed to his feet and offered her a hand up. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I think so. Cheating bastard. He broke the egg. I saw it.” She used him to climb up, staring around.

The herald was yelling for calm, but no one was listening. The air cleared of the butterflies, almost as suddenly as they’d appeared.

Stephen was crouched over Justin’s prone form. “He’s alive, but I don’t know that he had a hand in this. I found him, in a bad way, beyond the tents. He may be almost as much a victim as your majesty.”

Tony drew closer, Val at his back. “Perhaps we should wait and let him attempt the trial again,” he suggested. He didn’t _want_ to play fair with Hammer, but then, he was confident that Hammer alone would not best him.

The monarch stared around, and latched on Tony’s statement as being fair and honest. “We shall, then, adjourn. Tomorrow the rest of the contestants will rest, and Lord Justin will be given his chance. At present, the score stands, first place, Master Stark, with eight-seven points--”

“Rest. Rest sounds, very good,” Stephen said, and he was staggering then, practically falling into Tony’s arms.

“And what even did he do?” Val wondered, but she got an arm under Stephen’s and helped Tony carry him back to the tents.

“Well,” Tony said, half-staggering even under the half-weight -- it didn’t help that Stephen was so much taller -- “he found Lord Justin and carried him all this way. And I don’t think he’s been sleeping well.” They made their way into the tent and Tony eased Stephen onto his cot. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Val said. She stared down at him, her hand pushing against her chest where the pole had impaled her. “I feel… this day has already been a dream I wish soon to forget. A day of rest and revels, while Sir idiot recovers what wits he had. A companion--” she eyed him speculatively, then smiled. “No, nevermind. I see you are already engaged.”

She clapped his arm, and bowed herself out of the tent.

Tony watched her go, somewhat bemused. Not even a year past, he would have leapt on the offer with the greatest delight. Now, however, he simply knelt by Stephen’s side, touching the man’s face gently to test for fever. “Come on, wake up,” he muttered. “You’re the one with a doctor’s knowledge, not me.”

Stephen’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. “Well, that was unexpected,” he said. “Did Karl escape? I tried to hold him back, but-- he is stronger than I am, when cornered.”

“Yeah, he got away,” Tony admitted. “Are you okay?”

“Just weary,” he said. “Turning back time is not a task for the faint-hearted. Don’t… tell Wong. He disapproves.”

“I won’t,” Tony said. “I get the impression there’s not much he _does_ approve of.”

“Perhaps not,” Stephen said. He struggled to sit up. “Were you hurt? What’s the-- what was the result of your trial?”

“Eighty-seven out of a hundred,” Tony reported. “Currently in the lead, though they’re going to let Hammer try again tomorrow. I’m not hurt.”

“Good,” Stephen said. “There was… something I was planning to do, but I think it will wait. For now. Good job. Come, lay down. Rest. There will be more time, for everything. Later.” Stephen tugged him, lightly. There really was not quite enough room for two people on the narrow cot, certainly not when Stephen was all arms and legs and pointy elbows, but the offer was sincere, at least.

Tony smiled. “I’ll just... over here, on my bed,” he said. “You should get some rest.” He sat down on his own cot and pulled off his boots.

***

Lord Justin failed the contest of wits spectacularly, despite the time he was given to recover. He hadn’t even matched Val’s score, though she had barely tried at all.

Wong stayed out that evening, not returning to their tent until late the following morning. He offered no explanations for his whereabouts. The smug turn of his mouth kept Stephen from asking any questions.

Val knocked both men off their horses in the first pass of the jousting contest. Tony arced gracefully out of the saddle and hit the ground hard enough that Stephen felt his own chest squeeze. Justin barely managed that much, tipping sideways to avoid the lance and ending up dragged by the stirrup as his saddle slipped out of place.

Stephen couldn’t even fault her. She was a vision on horseback, a wild warrior, free and fierce.

The third contest, the contest of wills, would either declare Tony or Val the winner, or give Justin a final chance for a no-holds barred round.

“The contest of wills,” the monarch’s herald announced. “Claim the ring. The first to bend it to their will, wins.”

The monarch walked into the middle of the jousting field and tipped the ring onto a pedestal.

“That… could be bad,” Stephen remarked. “Spectral can destroy nearly anything it’s pointed at.”

“Well, then I’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t get pointed at me,” Tony said, with perhaps more confidence than he actually felt. Tony could easily out-will Hammer, but Val was formidable in ways that spoke eloquently of stubborn determination.

Starting from three corners, equal distance from the pedestal, they waited.

Across the triangle, Justin preened, Val stared daggers at him, and they both ignored Tony. Either from fear, or from disdain, or something else entirely.

The herald raised the trumpet to his mouth.

And blew.

Val sprinted forward, and Justin stumbled into a run. Tony... walked. At a brisk stride, but there was no hope of him making it to the pedestal before the others.

“What is he doing?” Wong muttered.

“We can always fall back on your plan, if we must,” Stephen muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Or, you can ask your girlfriend for it, after the tournament ends.” That was a direct hit, Stephen thought, as Wong didn’t quite _blush_ , but he didn’t meet Stephen’s eyes, either, pretending, perhaps, to know nothing whatsoever about what Stephen was talking about.

But it wasn’t a denial.

“At least, with the goal in sight, I have the courage to move toward it,” Wong said, not taking his eyes from Tony’s steady form.

Val made for the pedestal with unwavering speed, stopped within six inches, and turned.

“I hate cheaters,” she said, loud and clear over the crowd. “Even more than I hate _losing_.”

She was unarmed, not wearing armor, although it hardly mattered. Even without those things, she towered over both Justin and Tony.

She pivoted, swung her arm, and knocked Justin into the mud with a single blow.

“How’s that for a show of will?” She shouted, holding her arms aloft to the crowd in a gesture of victory. “Huh? How’s that?”

Tony just kept walking, until he was as close to the pedestal as Val, but his gaze never left the ring. He put one hand over his chest -- over Spin, Stephen realized, as if he were talking to the ring, or drawing strength from it.

“Stark,” Val said. She didn’t reach for the ring, she didn’t make a move to attack. She just stood there, looking at him, her hand hovering near the pedestal.

“Val,” Tony said, his eyes still on the ring. “It’s mine. You know it is.”

“Take your eyes off it,” she told him. “Unless the real case to be made is that you belong to it.” She continued to stretch her hand out, and reached past it, to touch the back of Tony’s hand. “Do you have the will to control it, or will they rule you?”

“You don’t want it,” Tony said. “You just wanted the games, the contests. You don’t care about the prize, not really.”

“I’m better than you,” she said. “This is not your field. Let me take it. I’ll give it to you, a gift. For a friend.”

“You may think you will, but you won’t,” Tony said. “It’s a troublemaker. You’re better off having never touched it.”

She took another step closer. “It calls me.” She flicked her gaze up, almost haunted. “It knows my name.”

“Yes. And you want none of it, I promise you.” Tony took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “It’s a burden, not a freedom.”

She dragged her eyes away, closed her eyes when it didn’t seem to be enough. “Take it,” she whispered. “Take it and be done with it. It’s evil. It’s _cursed_.”

“It is,” Tony said with a sigh, and he looked sad, tired, like all he wanted was to walk away, but knew he couldn’t. Still, it was another long moment before he lifted his hand and closed it on the ring.

Val shuddered all over, then gave Tony a grin that was trying harder than it needed to be, but cocksure and arrogant. “I’m still better than you are.”

He looked up at her, finally, and grinned back. “I know you are.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut-averse readers: smut ahoy. Feel free to bow out whenever things start getting too heated for your comfort level; there's nothing plotwise after the smuts. :)

The new moon was followed by a week’s worth of rain, and while Stephen felt every bit as mildewy as an old cheese, the rest was nice. Nothing much to do. Nothing urgent to take care of. He tucked himself into his cabin with books and a conjured magical flame to keep himself warm, and tried to relax.

Of course, that lasted for all of four hours before he was terminally bored. He occupied himself for another hour or two by imagining an elaborate, elegant meal, delicacies that he was craving after being forced to return to shipboard fare. But even that only took so long, and the exercise only left him more hungry than ever. And even if he did have the perfect meal on his table, he had no one to share it with.

He amused himself for a few hours by skulking around after Tony while in the astral plane, but Tony kept insisting on _working_ \-- usually building things for the ship, which involved being out of doors in the wind and rain, with his clothes sticking to him in various alluring and ridiculously appealing ways.

Finally, after enduring almost an hour of watching Tony work in a near see-through white linen shirt, Stephen sighed, got up and fetched the Cloak. The Cloak usually wasn’t particularly fond of rain, but it wrapped itself around Stephen eagerly, practically tugging him up on deck. “What are you about, there?” Stephen wondered. “Match-making?”

The Cloak radiated smugness.

Stephen tucked himself under the edge of the forecastle, trying to keep the rain from dripping down his neck. “Don’t you get cold up there?” he commented, loud enough for Tony to hear him over the noise of the sea and the weather.

“Not if I stay busy!” Tony said, laughing. He was doing something with a long length of rope and several pieces of wood that Stephen could make no sense of. “I thought you were going to stay locked in your cabin until the weather broke.”

“Hardly locked in,” Stephen said. “I confess, I do not enjoy the current storm. Come down, have some soup before you get lost at sea.” It was hardly a storm, no lightning in sight, nor torrential winds, just a steady rain and a cloud that seemed to be in love with the ship and following them around. But it was _cold_.

A fact that could be seen quite clearly, outlined on Tony’s chest. Stephen didn’t quite walk right into the mast, staring up at him, but it was a near thing.

“Soup sounds good,” Tony agreed. “I’ll come in when I’ve finished this.”

“Is that _soon_ by standard hourglass, or in Stark regulation?” Stephen called up.

Tony laughed. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Stephen went back belowdecks to prepare the food, but as soon as it was done, he was drawn back topside, irresistibly drawn despite the cold and wet. But it was no more than another half an hour before Tony had fastened his contraption to the mast and then wrapped a rope around his wrist to slide back down to the deck. “All right, where is this soup you’ve promised me?” he asked, his eyes sparking with something like amusement.

The Cloak promptly wrung itself out, snapping water everywhere as soon as they went below. “I have been practicing with portals,” he said, and presented the full course meal with a quick wave of his hand to re-warm it. “I relieved one of my favorite shops of an evening’s meal. The purse from the tourney was quite impressive, even after Lady Val took a share.”

Lobster bisque, cheeses, a tray of roasted pheasant. Wine. And a blueberry pie. It had taken him longer to figure out how to keep it all from spilling with each rock of the ship than it had to actually obtain.

Tony stared in amazement. “I’m beginning to think there’s something to this magic of yours,” he said. He shook the water out of his hair and took a seat at the table. “Is Wong joining us?”

“Not, I think, tonight,” Stephen said. He flicked his hair back into its normal style, trying not to notice the way his hands were shaking. Nerves, he thought, rather than pain. “And magic has been a rewarding study. I have learned much, even in these few months of adventure and peril.”

Tony flashed him a grin. “I should think _because_ of these months of adventure and peril. Nothing like a little peril to keep the mind sharp.”

“Nothing like a little peril to discover things that are important,” Stephen said. “Do you know all the things a man can learn to regret, coming face to face with death and temptation?”

“Well, certainly not _all_ of them, but I think I’ve got a pretty decent idea,” Tony said. He cocked his head, studying Stephen curiously.

“Mistakes, of course, that I wish I had not made, where I see so much clearer, looking back,” Stephen remarked. He heated the soup, checked it, pushed it over to Tony. “But more, I find myself wishing, not that I’d taken fewer risks, not that I’d done less, but that perhaps, I wished that I had done more. Said those things I was feeling, acted on those impulses. Who knows, now, what joy I have sacrificed, because I was too afraid to act?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You? Afraid to act?”

“Do you doubt it?” Stephen sat at the table, absently buttered a roll and folded a piece of cheese into it. “I am, after all, only human. And putting oneself on display, so to speak, carries a great burden of potential rejection. In the close quarters we share, perhaps more than just feelings might be harmed. But the potential to… step too carefully and risk missing one’s chance? I think that regret, I will carry further. If I am to regret it.”

Tony put his spoon down and considered Stephen. “So you are faced with the risk of action or the risk of inaction,” he said. “It’s a dilemma. But you don’t strike me as the sort of man to take the easier path simply because it is easier.”

“No, indeed,” Stephen said, and he couldn’t help but flash a quick smile at that, because he was, in fact, dancing all around the thornbush without putting his hand in it. If there was a more roundabout or difficult path to take to get to the point, he wasn’t sure he knew it. “Perhaps we did not meet on the best of terms, but I think we have come to have a certain amount of respect for each other. Admiration, even. We are, in short, friends.”

“Yes, I’d say so,” Tony agreed. “Somewhat to my own surprise, I admit.”

“You’re quite the man, Tony Stark,” Stephen said. “And admiration for your wit, your bravery, and your grit, I find… perhaps more than just… respect. I would regret never having made the attempt at securing your good opinion… your affections.”

“You would regret it even more if you knew how easily you might have them,” Tony said, with something like a catch in his voice. His eyes were wide and luminous in the dim light of the cabin.

For a long moment, Stephen couldn’t even breathe with astonishment. He pushed his foot out, slowly, until his calf was pressed against Tony’s under the table, unable even in his relief, to be more forward. Just the point of contact felt like a surcease of pain he hadn’t been aware he was suffering. “Tell me, then, that I have not been wondering, alone, if it was a possibility,” he said, knowing his voice was shaking and not being able to help that, either.

“If you will tell me that I am not dreaming now,” Tony countered. His hand slid across the table and turned, palm-up, inviting.

“Not dreaming,” Stephen said. He took that invitation, curling his fingers against Tony’s palm, feeling the heat of his skin, the rough scrape of callus against scars. “Although there’s been no shortage of those, either.” That was much as he would bring himself to confess, although there had been too many of those, the kind from which he woke, alone and drenched in sweat, wishing for things he couldn’t have. Or thought, perhaps, that he didn’t deserve.

“Well, then,” Tony said, curling his hand around Stephen’s. “There is one less thing for us to regret.”

Stephen squeezed, light. Relieved. “I’m gladdened to hear it. Eat your dinner, before it gets cold.” He popped the last bite of roll into his mouth, watching Tony from under lowered lashes. There was no need to rush anything. A declaration of mutual interest, the potential for some sort of… relationship. That was enough. Although watching Tony eat when he was doing it with intent, that was its own special sort of torture. Because having once made the decision to move forward, Tony did not seem particularly inclined to _wait_ , either.

He practically made love to the soup, licking the spoon clean after each mouthful, watching Stephen from under lowered lashes. He buttered his bread and then tapped it thoughtfully against his lip, leaving a smear that Stephen desperately wanted to wipe away. He sucked at the pheasant’s bones long after they’d been cleaned of meat, and sipped his wine without dropping his gaze from Stephen’s face. All the while, his calf was pressed against Stephen’s under the table, sliding gently back and forth in subtle torment.

The plates, at last, were clear of food, and he was comfortably full of food. There was an uncomfortable burning south of his belly, and Stephen couldn’t seem to look away. Utterly enraptured. Tony had a mouth made for sin and he was making use of it. Like the snake to Eve, he offered everything, held nothing back.

“You are some sort of temptation,” Stephen said, and he pushed his plate to one side, half standing to lean over the table. “And you know it well.” Another inch, two, and he could feel the rasp of Tony’s breath against his cheek. He wasn’t quite sure he was going to actually be able to cross that distance, to take that very last risk.

Except he’d forgotten, apparently, that the Cloak had its own mind about things. A sharp shove in the middle of Stephen’s back and he found himself with one hand in Tony’s hair and the other holding his hand, their mouths as neatly slotted together as if he’d planned it precisely.

Tony made a soft sound, and his hand was cupping Stephen’s face, thumb brushing lightly. Tony tasted of wine and cheese, and he yielded his mouth to Stephen’s tentative exploration without an instant’s hesitation or uncertainty. His tongue moved against Stephen’s in a slick slide, and when they broke apart, they were both breathing rough and uneven.

It has been longer than Stephen cared to admit since the last time he'd held someone with passion. Long enough that his heart was racing, his lungs aching. He hadn't meant, no matter that he teased Wong for their monkish lifestyle, to be chaste. But that was what had happened and, suddenly faced with a return of passion and a willing partner, Stephen burned for it.

“No more regrets,” he said, moving around the table to get right inside Tony's personal space. “Come to my bed. Let me, allow me the privilege to attempt to delight you.”

“Only if you will allow me to return the favor.” Tony leaned in, his lips brushing Stephen’s as he murmured the words, his hands at Stephen’s waist, hot even through their clothes.

There remained nothing in the world of importance, save Tony in his arms, the feel of the man’s heart pounding, the ragged sound of his breathing, the smell and taste of him. They moved, seemingly as one, until Stephen had backed Tony up against the door frame, still touching, exploring, not looking away from those deep amber eyes. The waves rocked the ship, gently, and Stephen found himself rolling with the motion, pressing against Tony eagerly.

Tony made a low sound and his hands tightened on Stephen’s hips, pulling them more closely together, a sensation as much unbearable torment as it was pure bliss. He licked his lips, eyes dark in the lamplight, and lifted his hands to untie the laces of Stephen’s shirt, exposing chest and collarbones. He leaned closer to press his mouth there, beard scratching lightly even as his tongue soothed.

Stephen heard a noise coming out of his throat, lewd and lush, and stifled it. Each brush of Tony’s tongue made him want to moan, to whimper and to listen to whatever sounds Tony might make in return. He put the spell together in his mind, then-- “Go,” he told the Cloak, “and guard the door.” Reluctantly, he pulled back from Tony, gave him a sly wink, and tapped his wrists together, twisting up the mystic energy. A rush of sound and energy bounced off the walls, and the whole room glowed with blue-green light.

“Privacy,” he explained, and then shifted, backing Tony toward the little cot with its rail and piles of blankets.

Tony grinned. “Handy, that.” He went where Stephen steered, and when his knees met the edge of the narrow bed, he all but fell back onto it, pulling Stephen with him so that they landed together, legs already tangled, Stephen braced over Tony, close enough to breathe each other’s air. Tony didn’t hesitate at all, but lifted his chin to capture Stephen’s mouth with his, curling one hand around the back of Stephen’s neck.

“You are… the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld,” Stephen told him, then took possession of Tony’s mouth, licking his way inside, tasting and exploring, delving into Tony’s mouth with dedication. A brief, almost gossamer touch of lip at first, and then, more, and more, until Tony was practically humming with pleasure, arms around Stephen’s neck. He shifted them on the bunk until he was sprawled across Tony’s body, cradled between his knees.

It was a tight fit -- the bunk wasn’t made for comfort, or sharing in mind -- but they would make it work, could make it work. Heat surged through Stephen, blood pumping in his veins like wildfire. He speared one hand into the tangle of Tony’s hair, still damp, and ravished him with soft, slow kisses.

Tony groaned and arched under Stephen, flexing his body, pressing them together in an undulation that would put a snake to shame. His hands roamed freely over Stephen’s shoulders and back and chest. It wasn’t until they stroked along bare skin that Stephen realized they’d been tugging the shirt up, nudging it out of the way.

Stephen struggled with the rest of his clothes, twisting and all but growling at the material, wanting that skin to skin contact, and then turned his attention to Tony. Unbuttoning the man’s shirt, he peeled it back, and--

“Oh!” He knew that Spin was part of Tony now, and he’d seen it a few times, but it had always been almost sullen before, a single blueish circle in the middle of Tony’s chest, but this time, it flared to life, bathing them both in its glow. “She’s… uh, not mad at me, is she?” He slowly traced the line of the circle with one forefinger, watching as it pulsed underneath him, in time with both their hearts.

Tony shook his head. “I think she approves, actually. She’s big on self-indulgence, it seems.”

Stephen lowered himself until he was snug, laying across Tony’s hips, and then licked at the skin over Spin’s glow, followed the line all the way around, and then blew cooler air over the damp skin, watching Tony shiver with something close to delight. “Well, then,” he said, “I shall indulge you.” He kissed Tony’s chest, and then again, sliding to one side to work his tongue over the little nubbin of darker skin, feeling Tony’s nipple contract against the pull and tug of his lips.

Tony’s breath caught and then blew out roughly. “Dangerous,” he said, utterly failing at nonchalance. “A man could get used to such indulgences.” His fingers pushed lightly through Stephen’s hair, scratching at the scalp, rubbing lightly behind the ear. “Accustomed, one might say.”

Spin’s light was beautiful, and it softened all the edges. In the glow, Stephen could imagine that he was still young, still unscarred, still whole and worthy of someone like Tony. He propped himself up on one elbow, absently circling his finger on Tony’s skin, dipping lower, and lower, until he was tracing the line just above his trousers, feeling oddly powerful as Tony sucked in a breath at the light touch.

He rolled, putting his back against the rough wood. “Raise up, let me--” He tugged at the strings at Tony’s waist, shoving the trousers out of the way as Tony rocked his hips up. He glanced down and drew in a quick, impressed breath before brushing his palm against Tony’s length, not wanting the rough scars on his fingers to rasp against that perfect skin.

Tony groaned, voice rough and broken, and arched into the light touch. “God, Stephen...” Tony tugged at Stephen’s hair, drawing him close to crash their mouths together, panting and hot and frantic with need. Tony’s hands stroked down Stephen’s skin, fingertips digging in over his hips with desperate strength.

The sight of him, long and lean and utterly eager for Stephen’s touch took Stephen’s breath away. He wanted, wanted, and he could have-- it was more than he’d expected. Tony’s dark eyes were wide, pupils shot, and his eyelashes fluttered. Stephen must have stared at him a little too long, because Tony outright smirked, practically posing in the narrow bed like he was expecting to be painted.

Tony had liked, had arched into Stephen’s touch, so he did it again, stroking his palm over that olive-tinged, silken skin. He brushed over the curls of dark hair, then up again, keeping his touch light, so that Tony was pushing up against him, active and willing, and aching for it. Stephen’s thighs quivered at the noises Tony was making; he was so beautiful, so warm, so responsive.

And yet, Stephen’s wrists were already aching, and not in the best way, so he dropped onto his elbows and slithered down the length of Tony’s body. Stephen was all leg, so he was crunched a little in the base of the cot, but managed to nudge until Tony figured out what he wanted. He was almost sitting, when Stephen got his mouth at the right angle, and took in that magnificent cock, licking at it like a sweet.

Tony cried out and nearly brained himself when he threw his head back. “Stephen, oh _hell_ , how do you--” He whined and shuddered, and his eyes were absolutely fixed on Stephen’s face, not even blinking.

He cursed again, hips writhing and trembling. He pressed upward, carefully, lip caught between his teeth in reaction. “God, I won’t, I won’t last, I’ve been so-- _God_ , Stephen, what you do to me, I can’t, I can’t, ah fuck, I’m-- _Stephen!_ ”

Ignoring his own body, his own needs, he locked his arms around Tony’s thighs, held him splayed open and vulnerable. _Yes, yes, like that_ , he thought, and he kept working his mouth over the man’s body. He used his tongue, flickered light strokes up the shaft, then mouthed the head, sucking light, then harder, let Tony thrust against him. There was something both primal and powerful in reducing Tony to that shivering, quaking wreck of a man. Satisfying, much more so than any physical bliss.

Stephen caught Tony’s gaze, watching as Tony stared at him. One last wriggle of his tongue, and Tony was gone, and it was the most gorgeous, arousing thing Stephen had ever witnessed.

Tony’s sounds flooded Stephen’s ears, a symphony of pleasure, as his taste broke across Stephen’s tongue. He cursed again, and gasped Stephen’s name as he fell flat onto the cot, panting. “The oldest magic there is,” he said after a moment, grinning up at the ceiling. “Give me just... a moment to catch my breath, and then I’ll see to your enjoyment.”

Stephen laughed, delighted and smug at the same time, squinching back up to press against Tony’s lax body. “Take your time,” he said. ‘I don’t feel inclined to go anywhere just yet.” Truth was, Tony had been sublime in his pleasure, and Stephen was quite enjoying watching the man look wrung out and wrecked.

Tony breathed out a soft laugh of his own, and petted clumsily at Stephen’s hair. “We’ll see if we can’t pin you in place for a while, then,” he promised. He laid still, more or less, for another several moments, then propped himself up on his elbows. “Now then,” and that came out as something of a purr, low and rumbling with promise.

Switching positions was awkward, to say the least, in such a confined space, but eventually they managed it, and then Tony was stretched over Stephen, looking down at him like a starving man at a feast. “I hardly know where to begin,” he confessed. “I’ve imagined this moment in so many ways.”

“Have you?” Stephen stretched, then hooked one leg over Tony’s hips. “That’s both gratifying and a touch vexatious at the same time -- think of how many opportunities we’ve wasted.” But that was too close to regret, and he had said he wasn’t going to think that way anymore. No more regrets. They had _now_ , and they had whatever came after _now_ , so Stephen was going to cherish it, either way.

“We won’t waste any more,” Tony promised, and dipped his head to nuzzle at Stephen’s throat, nipping and licking his way down Stephen’s chest. He veered to flick sparks across Stephen’s nipple until it drew taut and hard with sensation, humming happily at Stephen’s reactions. “Christ, I could devour you.”

“Let me be the first to encourage you,” Stephen managed. He couldn’t help but cling to Tony’s shoulders as he moved, wanting to stroke that skin. He skimmed his knuckles along the line of Tony’s cheek, down the side of his throat. Tony was near as insatiable as he claimed, his lips teasing at Stephen’s shoulder, making round, wet marks over Stephen’s chest, as if marking his place.

Tony worked his way down Stephen’s body slowly, leisurely, taking obvious delight in every soft sound or twitch of sensitivity. He made plenty of his own noises, humming and moaning and purring like a large cat whenever he was particularly enjoying himself, but he seemed in no way inclined to hurry things along. His hands were as busy as his mouth, stroking and petting.

By the time he reached the flat of Stephen’s belly, Stephen was near mad with desire. Tony glanced up, eyes sparking with mischief and heat, and caught Stephen’s gaze as he dragged his lips lightly down Stephen’s length, a bare brush of skin and warm breath.

It was an effort to restrain himself, to keep from bucking up into that heat. “Am I being chastised, perhaps?” Stephen muttered, his hands curving into half-fists until the skin stretched over the back of his hands. Want spiraled into _need_ so intense as to be close to pain. He settled for uttering a few strangled moans, hips twisting in an effort to get Tony’s mouth where he wanted it, where he needed it, where he felt, honestly, he might _die_ to have it.

“Not at all,” Tony protested. “You are being _appreciated_.” He grinned at the eloquent look Stephen gave him, then ducked his head and took Stephen’s entire length in, the wet heat of it almost a shock.

If there had been anyone else to hear the cry Stephen made, he might have been embarrassed; he sounded almost as needy as he felt, desperate for it. “Please, God, Tony!” It was utterly perfect and utterly a torment at the same time, Tony’s mouth a slick inferno. He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for; everything Tony did was wonderful. Almost too intense, almost too much, but at the same time, it wasn’t enough, and Tony held him on the ragged edge for almost longer than Stephen could bear.

Tony looked up at him again, those dark eyes wicked, that mouth red where it was stretched around him, and then Tony shifted, letting Stephen’s length slide even deeper, into Tony’s throat, a tight squeeze of heat. Tony’s hand cupped his balls, then moved even further back, pressing gently at the sensitive skin, teasing into his crack.

Stephen arched up at that, losing all control as everything in him turned to liquid fire. “Oh, my _God_ ,” he cried. His thighs clenched, his spine went white hot, and pure bliss flooded over him. He wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but it seemed as though the universe spilled its secrets to him in one wonderful, euphoric moment.

When he was able to see again, he found Tony leaning over him again, balanced somewhat awkwardly on the edge of the cot, grinning happily and stroking Stephen’s shoulder and arm and chest, like gentling a skittish animal. “That was gorgeous,” Tony said brightly as Stephen met his gaze. “Simply beautiful.”

“You…” Stephen shook his head, at a loss for words. He brushed his thumb over Tony’s bottom lip. If he were an artist, he might have wanted to paint Tony, if an architect, he would have built a temple to the man. As it was, Stephen really wanted nothing more than to have everything go on, just the way it was. Utter harmony. He’d had many experiences since taking up the mantle of sorcerer, and Tony was right. Love, trust, and ecstasy were the pinnacle of human magic.

The cot really was much too small, but with a little effort, Stephen managed to arrange them so Tony was sprawled mostly over Stephen’s chest, being smaller, lighter, and less made up of pointy elbows and stupidly long legs than Stephen was. He ran his fingers through Tony’s hair, soothing them both with the motions. “That was… quite magnificent,” he said, blurring on the very edge of sleep.

“Agreed,” Tony mumbled, wriggling to settle himself more comfortably against Stephen’s body, nestling his head in the hollow of Stephen’s shoulder. “Really must do it again sometime.”


	13. Chapter 13

The witchlights that Wong had conjured clustered close to them, as if the magical balls of energy were -- ironically enough -- afraid of the dark. The trees seemed to lean in on them, and Tony was conscious of an itch between his shoulder blades, like someone was watching, even if he couldn’t see them. All in all, the forest was creepy and unsettling.

The ring of red mushrooms with white spotted caps just completed the image. The circle was almost perfect, about nine feet across the middle, and took up most of the small clearing. There wasn’t so much as a dried leaf laying in the grass inside the circle.

Tony looked at the map, and then at the ring of mushrooms. He looked at the map again, willing it to change. It didn’t. He looked at the ring of mushrooms.

“No,” he said. “No, nope, not doing it. That ring is lost, there’s no recovering it. Even I know better than to step into a fairy ring in the middle of the night.”

“All things can be bargained for,” Stephen said. He was digging around in his bag, humming thoughtfully. “And no one loves a bargain more than the Sidhe.” Wong was already using a powder, salt and gunpowder and something else, Tony wasn’t sure what, to draw a smallish circle (outside the ring of mushrooms).

Stephen produced a wooden plate, a rough hewn piece of bread, and a bottle of honey. “And a small fairy can be reasoned with. Sometimes.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at Stephen. “Have you bargained with a fairy before?” He looked over at Wong. “Have you? Is this something they cover in magic school?”

Wong looked unbearably smug and touched one of the beads on a bracelet. “I have bargained with several, as it happens.”

Stephen put plate, bread, and honey in the middle of the salt circle, then shook his hand over the offering, murmuring a few words, and closed the whole thing off with a drop of blood. “Sit. We’ll wait and see if any of the fair folk should happen by and wish to have words. They’re fond of human-made things like bread.”

“He knows the rules,” Wong said, waving at Stephen, “but for you-- do not eat or drink. Do not agree to dance. And take no gifts, unless you can return like value for like.”

Tony held up his hands as if in surrender. “Whatever you say,” he agreed. “I still say it’s insane even to try it. There’s another ring only a couple of hundred miles away, up in the mountains. We could go for that one instead. Let someone else get stuck in fairyland for the next fifty years.”

“Believe me, others who seek the ring will absolutely try, and they will offer much more violent bargains than we will,” Stephen said. “Besides, we will secure safe passage. Look--”

Tony didn’t know where the creature had come from. He didn’t know what it was. Looking at it almost made his head hurt, like pressure around his eyes. Small, squat, like a toad, almost, but not a toad at all. A little man no bigger than a puppy, with a hunched back and a tiny little walking stick and an extraordinarily ugly hat, the -- fairy? -- walked all the way around the salt circle, muttering to itself.

“Wants it,” the thing said. “Pretty man things, and honey, we does like honey, but not so much with bees, do we? Bees are mean and bite-y and greedy with their honey.”

Tony dragged his gaze away from the fairy-thing with some effort, and looked at Stephen and Wong. He wasn’t going to so much as open his mouth if he didn’t have to. He didn’t like the idea that magic was real, but there was no contradicting the proof of his senses. And he was well-read enough to know that fairies were notoriously easy to offend and tricky to deal with.

“Good even, neighbor,” Stephen said, casually as if he were greeting the gossipy housewife across the back fence. “Should you care for it, I would be delighted to share my repast with you.”

“Neighbor?” the creature asked, looking up. “A wide neighborhood you have right now, long shanks.”

“The whole world, sometimes, it seems,” Stephen said.

The creature leaned forward and sniffed. “This plate, you wish to trade, and the bread? For what?”

“Safe passage through yon fairy ring, for my friends and I, and escort to the lord or lady who holds one of the Ten Rings,” Stephen offered.

“Could just take it,” the fae suggested, inching closer.

“I think you’ll find stepping across that barrier to be more than you bargained for, neighbor,” Stephen said. “We’ve offered you only a kindness and an exchange of favors. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You, well, yes, you, I know of, Sorcerer Supreme. Wise, they say, you are not. But smart. Very clever. Too clever.”

Stephen rocked his head back and forth. “Not an unfair assessment.”

“And this one?” The creature stabbed its little stick in Tony’s direction. “What is he, burning so bright with power?”

Tony spread his hands. _Nothing to see here_. “A traveler, for the moment,” he said, weighing his words carefully. “Keeper of a ring. Companion to the... Sorcerer Supreme.” He glanced briefly at Stephen, and found his gaze drawn back to the _wrongness_ of the fae.

The little thing cackled. “So we smell, traveler.” He continued to cackle and giggle, and it gave Tony a strange, unpleasant feeling in his stomach, like he’d bitten a ripe peach and found half a worm. Then it sniffed at the honey again. “All right. Escort and safe passage for two humans to the one who holds another ring, in exchange for honey, bread, and the plate, too.”

Stephen appeared to consider it. “All right.” He snapped his fingers and the ring of salt and gunpowder flared to life in a blue flame. When it died down, the creature was able to cross the line and snatch up the items within, eating the bread and honey with greedy, smacking sounds.

“Come then,” it said. “And hold hands. We will not be responsible if you wander off the path.”

Stephen offered one hand to Tony. “Wong, stay behind, guard the passage through. If someone comes along, we will need a safe way out again.”

Tony tucked his hand into Stephen’s. _This is such a bad idea_ , he thought, but didn’t dare say so aloud.

Stepping into the fairy ring was almost entirely like walking into someone’s home. There was a sense of a threshold, of some sort of very thin boundary. Like poking a soap bubble, almost.

“This way, your Supremeness, this way.” The little creature bounced and shuffled. There was nothing to indicate anything. Until there was. No longer in the woods at all, they were somewhere far colder.

Frozen trees with icy berries and flowers grew on all sides of the path. Like a sudden ice storm had struck right in the middle of spring. Somewhere, water dripped. The only sounds were of their own passage, and the water…

The sky was clouded over, and it was suddenly day, although without seeing the sun, Tony didn’t know how it could be. It wasn’t light, not really. But it had a day-like feel to it. Somewhat after lunch, Tony thought.

He shivered in the cold, and walked a little closer to Stephen. The landscape was beautiful but strange and alien. The trees had shapes Tony had never seen before, bark that grew in unknown patterns. The berries and their flowers were flourishing in the icy terrain, and each seemed more beautiful and lusciously tempting than the last. Tony tightened his grip on Stephen and forced his eyes back to their guide.

There was no way to tell how long they walked; Tony might have thought hours, the way his feet and legs started to ache, but the air still held that just-after-lunch feeling.

The city, when Tony saw it, was enormous.

Glass and crystal and snow, towering over the landscape. Incredible and utterly impossible. Towers that scraped the sky, brushing the clouds, with lacy, delicate bridges spanning the upper levels between them. Like some sort of crystalline beehive combined with a poet’s fancy.

“This way, this way,” the little creature said, poking his stick at the gates, which swung silently open.

The fae were there, carrying on their business, whatever it was. Hundreds of them, tall and proud and unspeakably beautiful, or short and lovely. A tiny fairy, no bigger than Tony’s palm, flew up to them, her wings like a butterfly. “Don’t you think I’m pretty,” it asked Tony, pirouetting  in the air.

“Yes, very pretty,” Tony agreed carefully.

The little fairy preened, smoothing out her gossamer gown, and flew around Tony’s head a few times before disappearing again. She popped back in front of them a moment later. “A pretty flower, for a pretty compliment. Will you accept it?”

Stephen’s hand tightened on his for a moment, then murmured, “it’s a fair trade. She cannot take your compliment without giving something in return.”

Tony glanced at Stephen briefly, then nodded solemnly to the tiny creature. “I will,” he said. He did not let go of Stephen. There were so many fae around them, and any one of them might knock them off their path if they were separated. When he reached for the flower, it chilled him and he almost dropped it.

“Here, let me.” She seemed amused by Tony’s conundrum, and gently touched his hair, pushing it aside until she could tuck the flower behind his ear. The flower was cold and frozen, but somehow, still not unpleasant, against his skin. It didn’t melt. Just stuck there, like a whisper of a winter’s wind.

A few of the fae followed along behind them, talking to each other, pointing and gossiping. Another fairy, this one with a brilliant red hat, offered them apples, which Stephen politely refused.

“Not far,” the creature who led them said, and ducked into a door made from ice, shiny and reflective. “The Baroness of Water Song, I bring guests.”

“Lord of the Undermoss, I give you greetings.” The fairy that came into the room was tall, thin, with green hair and blue skin the color of a frozen sea. Her eyes were like starlight, and her hands as graceful as a bird’s. “Who comes, seeking me?”

“The Sorcerer Supreme, and my companion, a simple traveler, Baroness.” Stephen bowed, a touch awkwardly, as he kept a fast hold on Tony’s hand.

“Safe passage, and escort,” Undermoss said. With another one of those gleeful little cackles, he vanished. “Bargain complete.” His voice echoed around the room after he disappeared, a cold fog surrounding them and then dissipating.

Tony couldn’t help but stare at the fairy woman. Even without any magical ability of his own, he could feel the power of her. _Well?_ he thought at Spin. _Where’s your sibling?_

Spin thrummed in his chest, and Tony blinked. When he opened his eyes again, like another layer, he could see, underneath the one his mundane eyes saw. The fairy woman, her glamor wrapped around her like a scarf, was almost normal underneath it. Kind eyes, a soft smile, and a heart like a stone in her chest. On the little finger of her left hand, she wore a ring made from ice, set with little blue gems. It throbbed there, in response to Spin, in time with Tony’s heartbeat.

Tony blinked again, and his vision cleared -- or, perhaps, clouded again. Whichever, it was far more comfortable. “Greetings, Baroness,” he said. That seemed... relatively safe.

“You’ve come quite a ways, young sorcerer,” the Baroness said, sinking into a chair that appeared out of the ice, summoned as she wished to sit. “I would say to make yourselves comfortable, but perhaps you will not be staying long. What will you say to me, now?”

“My lady,” Stephen said, “we are seeking one of the ten, and have come to make a bargain for it.”

“Oh, you do know how to bargain, do you not? I have heard, we have all heard. Seven million deaths, each one suffered, each one remembered. Poor child, what a price you paid,” she said.

Stephen blanched, went pale. He swallowed hard and his fingers tightened almost painfully on Tony’s. “I think, in the end, worth it.”

“For your world, and they will never know what you have done,” she said. “Does that not make you angry? Do you not feel _neglected_?”

“I have as many accolades as I need,” Stephen said. “Dormammu is known to you?”

“He cannot cross this boundary,” she said, dismissing it with a flick of her fingers. “Not while the queens all live. But you carry his shadow on your soul. It haunts you.”

The baroness flickered, and then spoke directly to Tony, as if Stephen couldn’t hear her. Who knew, maybe he couldn’t. “Traveler,” she said. “I know you least of all who have appeared before me. Your deeds are silent, and guarded. Will you give me your name?”

That, at least, was a trick Tony had read about. “No, my lady,” Tony said as politely as he could. “I still have use for it. Call me as you like.”

“I shall call you, then, Iron Man, for thus you will be spoken of, in legend,” she said. “Long past the time your bones are dust, men will sing of your deeds. But I cannot hear the song. Not yet. That glass is not yet broken. But you will be great. A legacy. Are you not proud? Confident. What do you wish to gain here? The sister of your darling? Love, hope? Bravery? A weapon? Many things are in my power to give you.”

Her voice was like a chorus of many notes, and Tony thought that he only heard some of them. The ones he heard were coaxing, sweet and hypnotic, and he felt himself swaying toward her, stopped only by Stephen’s grip on his hand. He blinked and regained his balance. “As the sorcerer said, my lady, we seek the one of the ten which has made its way to this realm.”

“Ah, yes, dear Zero,” she said, fondly. “It is pretty enough, but its powers give me nothing I do not already possess. Little enough to part with, I suppose. What do you have, I wonder, though, that I might want? The color of your hair, perhaps? The first three of your birthdays? The songs your mother used to sing? The last week of your life? All of the wine you have ever drunk? No?”

Tony cocked his head, studying her. “What would tempt you?”

“It must be something valuable, dear, as Zero is much sought after, of value to a great many.”

“You already know what you will ask for,” Stephen said. “You knew before even we set foot inside your home.”

“Of course,” she said, “but in the way of all my kind. All times are one, everything that happens now, happened ages ago. I know what I want because you have already given it to me. Oh, and you love him don’t you? Poor thing, a single, precious night. I will take this, this memory. There is power in a first kiss, in a first night. In the first love. Don’t you think? Will you give it to me, in exchange for what you must have. Zero must go to Iron Man’s hand, and his alone, for one task, or he will burn in front of you and nothing can be done, can it? You know I am right, so speak now. Say you give it, and the ring is yours.”

Tony looked at Stephen with wide eyes. “Is she saying what I think she’s saying?”

Stephen met his gaze. “A memory,” he said. “ _The_ memory, really. It will be as if it never happened. We won’t even remember forgetting. All of it, and everything that has come from it, until now.” His luminous eyes were wide, sorrowful.

“You are young,” the fairy said. “You can begin again. It is not so much. One night, against everything that may come later. It would not be the first time, for either of you, to take a lover and leave them behind.”

“But--” Tony searched Stephen’s eyes. “Do we have no other choice?”

“It is precious to you,” the Baroness said. “So delicious, the agony of the choice. Take it, or leave it. You will get no other bargain from me.” She smiled like she was watching a play. Or a murder. There was a gleam there, cold and heartless.

“Tony,” Stephen said, and his voice cracked. “I… she’s right. We have time, we’ll still be together. Those… that… I…” He drew in a breath. “Those feelings did not come from nothing. We can begin anew. One night, and we can have… hundreds of them. Later.” Despite that, his eyes filled with tears and one spilled down his cheek and disappeared into his beard. “I love you now. I will love you again.”

Tony’s chest ached as if his heart were being pulled physically from his body. He drank in Stephen’s face, that agony, that feeling, that determination. “I will love you again,” he whispered, a promise to them both.

He turned to face the Baroness. “For so much, grant us the ring and guarantee of safe passage back to the place and time we left, as well.”

“It is struck, then,” she said. “The ring, and safe passage, for the memory of your declarations and the knowing of each other’s bodies. It is a rich memory, and I delight in holding it. Come, closer, children, and take my hand.” She extended the hand with Zero on it to Tony, the other to Stephen. “Form the circle, our bargain is thus struck.”

Stephen swallowed hard, then took the fairy’s fingers, forming the first join of the circle. A sizzle of ice formed between them, like manacles. “It is struck.” He didn’t look away from Tony, as if all he wanted to do was sear the memory into his brain, knowing that he couldn’t.

Tony couldn’t look away, either. He barely glanced at the fairy’s hand and then looked back at Stephen as he reached out, letting her cool, slim fingers close over his. “It is struck,” he murmured.

“We are agreed,” she said, and Tony looked down at his hand. Zero was a block of ice on his finger, but if a block of ice could be happy, Zero was. She was singing back and forth between Tony’s finger and his heart, where Spin rested.

His heart… ached.

“Oh, this is lovely, darlings, so very warm. Almost too warm,” the Baroness said with a tinkling little laugh. “I will treasure it. Here…” She snapped her fingers and another fairy appeared. “This is Glimmer. He owes me many favors, more even than he can remember, the poor thing. He will lead you out and make sure you return to your friend at the time we agreed. Won’t you, Glimmer?”

“Yes, my lady,” the fairy said. Something was wrong with him, Tony thought, but he couldn’t quite-- and then he saw it. Despite the light in the baroness’s home, Glimmer didn’t cast a shadow. No shadow at all.

Tony shuddered, but didn’t mention it. It would probably be rude.

He looked down at Zero, touched his fingertips to Spin in his chest, still aching. Perhaps fairyland didn’t suit her. The sooner they left, the better. If only because having Stephen so near was an ache of its own, a wild longing that Tony could barely keep in check.

“Follow, please,” Glimmer said. “One more favor, just one more, I think. Glimmer thinks. Glimmer isn’t sure. This way. Out and out. The fastest way, but step where Glimmer steps. Humans get lost, so easy they get lost. They lose things and they forget. But Glimmer knows. He has many, many memories that aren’t his. He keeps the things that humans forget. Sometimes. But there are so many, they don’t all fit in his head, and Glimmer forgets his own things. One more favor. Did she tell you that? Or was it many?”

The fairy walked, leaving glimmering, glittery footprints behind and Stephen was very careful as he stepped, covering each one with his own foot in perfect order. Left and right, leaving a trace outline for Tony behind him.

Tony followed, eyes darting between the footprints and Stephen’s back and the occasional glimpse of the -- perhaps slightly demented -- fairy.

Wong hadn’t even turned around by the time Glimmer exited the portal. He blinked, looked surprised. Not the very first time Tony had seen him express some emotion, but it wasn’t a common occurrence. “That was quick.”

Stephen shook his arm until Tony let go of his hand, rubbing his fingers with the other hand as soon as he was free. “We made a bargain,” he said.

“So I gather,” Wong replied. “What was it?”

Tony tried not to feel stung at the haste with which Stephen had shaken him off. “I’m not sure,” he told Wong. “I seem to have all my parts, my childhood is intact, I don’t feel like I’ve aged unnaturally...” He shrugged. “Must have been something small. She did say the ring couldn’t do much for her.”

Stephen shook his head. “I don’t… quite recall. I feel… odd. Like I’ve misplaced something, or I forgot to do something.”

Wong put on his best inscrutable look (which was very, Tony decided. Quite unfair) and sighed. “Never a good sign,” he said. “And I see you have decided to keep this ring. I have concerns. But this is not the place, or the time, to address them.”

“I expect you’re right,” Stephen said. He gave Tony a long look, as if searching for something in Tony’s face, or seeking to remember whatever it was he’d forgotten. “It must not have been important.”


	14. Chapter 14

The village at the foot of the mountain, prime crop and vineyard land, was abandoned, what of it wasn’t burned down. Some carrion birds lingered over shapes too small to be livestock, and Stephen was just as glad that they didn’t give over their prize. Some of the buildings were still smoking.

The village before this one had been in the process of evacuating, families hauling their belongings in wagons and on their backs. Hundreds of animals, being driven away from green pastures toward the sea.

Dragon, the rumor had gone. Awake after who even knew how many centuries.

The Cloak of Levitation flapped around Stephen’s heels like a cowed dog.

“A dragon,” Wong said, squinting up at the fog-shrouded mountain. “I have seen many wonders, but not that.”

Tony looked up at the trees on the slopes, even from this distance blackened and ravaged by fire. “I don’t suppose we could hope for a metaphorical dragon,” he sighed. “No, that would probably be too easy. Dragon. Big teeth, claws, fire. Possibly wings. Yay.”

“Depending on the age,” Stephen added, “it may also have some skills in the mystic arts.” He looked around again, noting the smoke rising. “On a more positive note, it could not have been awake long. This area would long ago have been abandoned. So--”

“Recently awakened dragon,” Wong said. “Grumpy. And possibly quite hungry.”

“Cheerful, thank you, Wong,” Stephen said. He couldn’t quite resist the morbid urge to look at the flock of carrion birds again.

Tony huffed. “Well. I doubt its fire is actually hotter than a volcano’s, so at least I’m protected there.” He held up his hands, framing the mountain and measuring its slope. “We’ll probably be freshest if we fly up. It’ll give the thing less warning, too.”

“Or announcing ourselves as the afternoon snack,” Wong said. He moved his fingers and snapped his mystical stepping stones into place.

“Go for the eyes,” Stephen suggested. “And the heart-scale. And hope it’s not _wearing_ the damn ring. We’ve got enough problems.” The Cloak lifted him effortlessly and Stephen mentally reviewed his defensive spells, his mystical weapons, and might have briefly included a prayer for their general well being. He’d never faced a dragon before, either.

He checked on Tony, even after days of travel unable to shake the feeling that he’d forgotten something, something important, that nagged at his mind until he found it hard to concentrate on anything else, like chasing a word on the tip of his tongue. Like a piece of song that he couldn’t quite remember more than a few notes, that played over and over in his mind until it drove him mad. Like saying his own name over and over until it didn’t make sense anymore.

Tony was drifting on the breeze, Spin glowing bright blue through the armor and Zero glinting on his finger. He opened his eyes and caught Stephen looking at him. He smiled ruefully and shrugged a little as he slammed the faceplate shut. “Maybe if we survive this,” he said, “we’ll have some time to... figure it out.”

“Let us… go wake the beast,” Stephen said. He tried to see the shape of the mountain through the fog, to find the entrance to the beast’s lair, to locate somewhere that they might engage in combat.

The problem, Stephen discovered quite suddenly, was not that the dragon had a lair, but that the dragon was, in fact, sitting on top of the mountain, as if it were part of the landscape. The creature opened one eye to look at the tiny men that had come to face it.

All the spit in his mouth dried up, his heart thudded heavily, and Stephen was aware, very aware, of how mortal and tiny they were.

“Greetings, _lunch_ ,” the creature said, its voice so loud that it shook the air around them. Slowly, it lifted its head. Yawned. Teeth the length of swords, filled its mouth. Entirely too many teeth. Just an absurd amount of them, really. It could have swallowed all three of them in a single gulp and had room for a pair of oxen.

“Right, well,” Tony said weakly. “So much for the element of surprise.”

“Dragon!” Stephen shouted, already pulling in power for a heavy shield. “We only wish a simple item from your treasure. There is no need to fight.” Might as well see if the dragon was willing to deal.

“Who speaks?” The dragon raised its wings, an impressive span, and flapped. The whirl of air pushed around was like attempting to stand in a hurricane gale, nearly sending him toppling through the sky.

“Stephen Strange,” Stephen yelled, trying to be heard over the rush of air. “Sorcerer Supreme.”

“What care I for puny human titles,” the monster wondered. “I am _fire_. I am _death_. I am the last thing you will ever see.”

It raised up, showing off a chest full of scales, all glittery and bright, and-- matching Tony’s armor. The beast was covered with _dragon iron_. Because of course it was, why had Stephen not thought it through?

“There,” Tony murmured. “The heart scale.” It wasn’t quite where one would expect a heart to be, a little closer to center, a little further down the massive chest than Stephen had been looking -- but there was no mistaking it; it gleamed gold where the others were all red.

Wong raised his arms and suddenly there were dozens of him, all moving in confusing synchronicity, each wielding a mystical weapon; a half dozen swords, whips, nets.

Front claws that could bring down an elephant swept through the air, sending half the Wongs into oblivion. “Is this what you have, Supreme Sorcerer? Mere tricks and illusions?” The dragon scrambled along the mountain, tail sliding like a whole forest of snakes. Stephen concentrated, opened a portal-- right under the dragon’s foot. A single claw, the first knuckle went in and Stephen snapped the portal shut.

The dragon screamed -- in rage or fear or pain, he couldn’t tell -- as black ichor sprayed from the wound, minor as it no doubt was.

“You will pay for that,” the beast threatened and leaped into the air.

Tony flew in tight spirals, an aerial dexterity that the dragon could not match.

Unfortunately, the dragon didn’t need to match Tony’s agility. Instead, it sucked in a breath like a gale and blew fire everywhere. Stephen was blinded by it, brilliant orange eating up the entire sky; the air rippling like a mirage in front of it as it completely engulfed Tony.

Someone screamed, and Stephen realized only belatedly that it was his own voice, bursting roughly out of his chest and throat and leaving him bleeding. “Tony!” Surely nothing could have survived that blast, and Stephen hadn’t even told him--

Something fell out of the gout of flame and smoke, graceless and tumbling. The body, Stephen thought, but then it twisted and righted itself. Zero blazed on Tony’s hand like a star, and even from afar, Stephen could see ice crystals clinging to the armor.

Stephen let out the breath he’d been holding, half-sobbing in relief. Zero had protected Tony from the dragon’s fire. But in the few seconds it had taken Tony to right himself, the dragon had surged closer. It swiped him out of the air, sending him crashing into the mountaintop.

Stephen’s heart squeezed painfully until he saw Tony move, crawling away. The dragon aimed one massive clawed foot at the man. “Tony!” Stephen opened a portal just under Tony, letting him tumble harmlessly into the mirror dimension, and then out the other end, right over the dragon’s back.

Tony flailed for a moment and then recovered his position, looked around for Stephen and saluted him briefly. He stayed in that position, hovering behind the dragon’s head where it couldn’t see him, looking around as if trying to find some sort of weapon that might suffice.

They were like wasps, harassing a dog. An angry dog, covered with scales and claws and possessing the wit of a man. Oh, and--

The dragon turned its wrath and its fire on Stephen, that searing blast so hot that Stephen couldn’t breathe even before it touched--

A wall of ice as thick as Stephen’s arm formed in front of him, melting furiously.

Stephen opened a portal and dove through it before the flame destroyed the protective shield.

He was in the mirror dimension, safe for a moment, watching. Trying to find a weakness. The dragon was so vast, how the _hell_ were they going to fight it?

Stephen portaled back to the fight, close to the dragon’s head, and threw every bit of strength he had into a blast of power. He threw it at the dragon’s eye, hoping to blind it, but even the scales over the eyelid were ridiculously strong. A single blink and the dragon shook its head, throwing off the blow and nearly knocking Stephen out of the sky.

“Ice!” Tony shouted, and he lunged toward the dragon’s face, buzzing around it and then launching himself upward at an insane speed. The dragon roared its fury and gave chase, wings beating like bellows as it flew straight up.

“Where does he think he is going?” Wong asked, as calmly as if they were still back in the library, his tea and apple waiting for him on his desk.

“You know what they say,” Stephen said, zipping after the beast, conjuring cold, grabbing as much of the ice and winter as he could control. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall. The wings, old friend--”

Up and up, they chased the dragon as it chased Tony, until the air was freezing and thin, until Stephen could barely see, and then he released it, a gust of cold so frigid that droplets of water turned instantly to ice, clinging in his beard and stinging his face. “Move, move, move,” Stephen yelled as one wing opened and was torn and ripped as the wind sheared at the thin, supple hide. Ichor gushed and then froze in place, crippling the wing. The dragon couldn’t bend the tender bone without peeling its own skin off. “Tony!”

Tony’s own armor was limned with frost, glinting in sunlight that gave no warmth. He paused at Stephen’s call, glancing back down at them, watching the dragon’s struggles through the slitted eyes of his armor. In his chest, Spin flickered.

The dragon shrieked, sound so loud and so terrifying that Stephen clapped his hands to his head, turning away, eyes closed and freezing shut with the force of his tears. He flew blindly, letting the Cloak direct him away, away, all he wanted was to get away. The body, huge and writhing in the air, fell past him, dragon still screaming of vengeance.

Vengeance?

Stephen forced his eyes open, stared as the dragon plummeted out of the sky like a comet, headed directly for the mountain where it had lived. But its tail was wrapped around Tony’s leg, dragging Tony down, too.

Tony strained against the hold, but Stephen could see the way Spin flickered, tired. Nearly out of energy. “Stephen!”

“No!” And Stephen was flying, faster than he’d ever gone, fighting the wind and racing gravity, reaching, straining. The fingertips of Tony’s gauntlet reached for him, but he couldn’t touch them. Too far, too fast. He fluttered backward, hands moving to summon a portal; he could catch them before they hit the ground, he could--

Stephen zipped through the opening, grabbed Tony around the waist. “I got you,” he said. “Hold on.”  

Tony clutched at Stephen frantically, but they were still falling, pulled by the dragon’s weight. “Oh god, Stephen, I can’t, it’s too strong!”

The dragon smashed into the mountaintop with an unholy shriek of rage and pain. The rock exploded under the impact like wood shattering from a cannonball’s direct it. Gravel and dust and boulders and splintered bits of tree burst into the air around them and then rained down on them in a deadly patter.

_Shield, shield, shield._ Stephen flung energy into it wildly, gesturing, promising favors to lesser gods and greater demons, just hold them, only a moment. Something struck his hand, a stinging, agonizing blow and two of his fingers broke, but the bubble snapped around them, yellow and glowing and--

Something struck the back of his head and Stephen toppled into darkness.

***

Tony wasn’t sure, at first, whether he was awake or still dreaming. There was no light, aside from the dim glow of Spin in his chest, giving the space an otherworldly, dreamy feel. Zero, on his finger, was dark and quiescent, her energy entirely drained. But there were small rocks and dust inside his armor, having found their way in through seemingly every crack and crevice. His side hurt, and then hurt more when he tried to move -- cracked rib, most likely. And something was on his legs, weighing them down so he couldn’t move them.

He gritted his teeth against the pain and pushed himself upright, then coaxed Spin into a somewhat brighter shine so he could take stock.

He was in what looked like it had been a natural cavern, the ceiling jagged with stalactites, many of which had been broken into shards that littered the floor. Tony could see the hole they’d crashed through, but it had been covered over with several enormous boulders and what looked like a precarious jumble of smaller debris. He suspected that if he tried to move any of it -- once Spin recovered enough to let him float again, which would be a while -- the whole mess would come raining down on him.

The weight over his legs was Stephen, an ungraceful and crumpled heap. “Oh, God, no,” Tony breathed. He stripped off his gauntlets and scrambled to untangle Stephen’s limbs, to lay the sorcerer more comfortably against the floor, heedless of the pain it caused. “Stephen! No, no, don’t--”

Stephen’s skin was warm, though, and his chest rose and fell. Tony laid against Stephen’s breastbone and heard the slow beating of his heart. Relief washed through him, so strong that it knocked all the breath from Tony’s lungs. “Okay,” he rasped. “Okay, you just... You rest.” Tony tugged at the Cloak, nudging it until it bunched up a little under Stephen’s head, making a bit of a pillow.

Even as light as it was, the armor was awkward to move in, and the broken rib didn’t help. It took long moments for Tony to climb laboriously to his feet so he could look around.

The dragon’s body filled most of the space, its limbs twisted and broken from the fall. Tony couldn’t see its head from where he was, but he watched for several minutes, and the great belly never shifted to draw breath. Another blessing. They’d have to find the ring, and soon, if they didn’t want to have to fight any other contenders who might show up looking for it.

Even as he thought it, he caught a glint of Spin’s light reflecting from something tangled around the dragon’s foreleg. Cautiously, Tony crept forward. It couldn’t be so simple, could it?

No. The thick gold and iron twist that was wrapped around the dragon’s leg would have been a torque or even a belt for a human, and though the Rings appeared to resize themselves to fit their purpose, Spin showed none of the excited recognition it had previously exhibited in the presence of its siblings.

There _was_ a jewel on the thing, though, that flickered and fluttered with a dim light, like a firefly trapped too long in a jar. Tony crept a little closer, still wary of the beast’s claws.

It was a sphere of glass or crystal, a little smaller than Tony’s fist, pinned into place with a fine iron filigree. It was astonishing, really, that the thing hadn’t smashed into smithereens already. Closer yet. Tony glanced back at Stephen, who still slept, and then leaned in to examine it.

Huddled in the sphere was a tiny person, the size of one of Tony’s fingers. He blinked, startled. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

The little thing -- difficult to tell a gender, if it even had one -- was dressed in what looked like it had once been a child’s handkerchief, tied up with a hank of yarn. It looked up and uncurled slowly, spreading wings like a dragonfly. It peered up at Tony, little face scrunched up in confusion. It made a few incomprehensible gestures, and then stamped one tiny foot, although not a single sound came from the sphere.

Whatever it was, Tony couldn’t just leave it there. “Hang on, I’m going to get you out,” he promised. The iron filigree was sturdy but brittle, bending and then cracking and splitting with only a little effort on Tony’s part.

Breaking the sphere was the harder part; he couldn’t just smash it on the ground or with a fist, not without endangering the little creature inside. A few moments of searching found a rock with the right shape: a long, jagged point and a fairly flat opposite side. He set the point against the glass and gently tapped at it with his fist. _Tink!_ It clattered a little, but didn’t scratch the surface.

Tony hit it harder. _Tink!_ He set his teeth and hit it again, giving it some weight. _Ti-crack!_

The creature covered its head with its arms, ducking away and when the glass cracked, it shrieked, high and shrill. A moment later, it flew out of the broken glass and hovered in front of Tony’s face. “You do that? Why?”

Tony recalled the ritual etiquette of the fairies, and bowed. “Call it a gift,” he suggested.

The little fairy scowled. “In dragon’s cave long time. Dance for him. Sing for him. I have _nothing_ for this gift. You take, this my name. In need, you call me. When I have rest. Have time. Favors. Yes? This is fair?”

Tony hadn’t meant to prompt an exchange. Fairies. Well, it couldn’t hurt to have one of the fae owe him a favor. He nodded solemnly. “Fair.”

“Friday. My name. It’s Friday.”

“Friday,” Tony repeated dutifully. “I’ll remember.”

Friday gave him a smile like a burst of starlight, and then vanished, leaving behind a soft glitter of fairy dust that faded, even as Tony watched.

“So that’s a no on being able to follow it to an exit,” he sighed. He went back to exploring.

The space that was left to them wasn’t large, perhaps half the size of Stephen’s ridiculous ship. It extended out a little behind the dragon’s body, and Tony thought there might be a passage that led to other caverns -- perhaps even a way out -- but he was loathe to leave Stephen to go exploring.

There was no actual way of knowing anything, really. It could be night or day. They could be close to the surface or hundreds of feet beneath. The dragon could have a mate. Or hatchlings. The weight of the rock over them should not have felt oppressive, but somehow it did.

When Stephen finally drew a shuddering breath and opened his eyes, it could have been _hours_ later.

“When… where are we?” Stephen wondered, putting one hand to the back of his head and drawing it away, sticky with old blood and dirt.

“In a cave,” Tony said. “That’s all I know.” Something about the dark, heavy air made him speak softly. As if there were things in the shadows that might awaken.

Stephen struggled to sit, and then coughed, great hacking wheezing spams that rocked him like a sapling in a storm. When the paroxysms finally passed, he touched Tony's face with an unsteady hand. “Thank the seven moons of Sortan you're alive.”

“You too,” Tony said, covering Stephen’s hand and pressing it gently against his cheek. “Are you badly hurt?”

“Truth, I have not felt _much_ worse,” Stephen said, giving a sad chuckle at his own joke. “I… well it worked, but I might have strained a muscle.” He shivered, pulling the Cloak tighter around him. “A… mystical one. The core of my strength is depleted.”

“Spin’s feeling pretty drained, too,” Tony admitted. “And Zero’s out cold. We might have to find our way out of here on our own feet, unless you’ve got enough juice to put together a portal.”

“That is usually not terribly difficult,” Stephen said. “Some rest and I--” He raised his hand, mouth still working but words not coming out at all. He displayed his hands for Tony to see; one ragged and scarred as it always was, a little dirty, the fingers stained with blood and filth, the other raw and mangled, skin torn away from the knuckles of two fingers, the digits bent painfully.

“Stephen, my God, your hand!” Tony reached, hesitated. “We need to bind that,” he said. He started undoing the catches of the armor. His shirt should rip into bandages fairly easily. Christ, the poor man’s hands had been damaged enough!

“Painful as it is--” Stephen’s voice strained to remain level as Tony gently pulled his fingers as straight as possible and set the bones “--the question of my re-broken fingers begs another dilemma, which is that I have apparently misplaced my slingring. Without that, we are deprived of an easy route to a safer location. The slingring channels the energy needed for a teleport. Without it-- I could just as easily blow us into a million pieces. Very tiny, tiny pieces.”

Tony froze. Stared at Stephen. Very carefully finished lowering his chestplate to the floor of the cavern. “Right,” he finally said. “So... that’s a no on the portal, then. Okay. We’ll... We’ll figure it out.”

“Yes,” Stephen said. “We shall. Let us see, then.” He coughed again. “Is it too much to hope that you might have brought along some water?”

“I was getting ready to fight a dragon,” Tony pointed out. “I didn’t pack snacks. I didn’t expect the fight to last long enough to need a break for refreshment.”

“Yes, well, a little short-sighted of us both, perhaps,” Stephen said, giving Tony a quirk of a smile and a wink. “Let us see, then, what we have to work with. I believe I can walk, if we go along slowly.”

“Slow is good,” Tony agreed, pressing gingerly at his cracked rib. “I think there might be a passageway behind the dragon, there.” He gestured, then picked up the discarded bits of his armor and started making his way carefully around the rubble on the floor.

Stephen’s Cloak picked itself up from the floor, shook out a cloud of dust, and swirled dramatically over Stephen’s shoulders. A moment later, Stephen was levitating and he pulled up to Tony’s side like a wizard-shaped kite. “Come, lean on me. I cannot carry you, but you needn’t bear the entire burden alone. You’re limping.”

Tony thought of protesting, but if they had to face still more hazards, he would need to be at his best -- or as close to it as he could manage. He nodded tiredly and draped an arm around Stephen’s waist. “Ribs,” he grumbled. Luckily, his bad ribs and Stephen’s broken fingers were on opposite sides, so they could put their less-damaged sides together.

“The part of the adventure that they never speak of in the stories,” Stephen said. “The part of being lost in the darkness, cold, injured, and far from many comforts. And, as much as I am glad you are here with me, my friend, I would that you had made it clear of yet another disaster. My teacher, the Ancient One, would say I’m doing a remarkable job of leading a quest. Wong would clarify--” He paused for a shaking breath. “A remarkably _terrible_ job.”

It was a bad joke, perhaps not even a joke at all, really, but somehow, it lightened the burden, just a little.

Tony chuckled a little, then winced as the movement jarred his side. “I think you’re doing pretty well,” he countered. “We’re still alive, at any rate, which is quite honestly better than I expected.”


	15. Chapter 15

The dragon was ridiculously long, even in death, and they could not simply climb over it -- for one thing, neither of them were in anything remotely resembling top form, and for another, the scales were razor sharp on the sides -- and so they had to walk around.

Stephen had walked quite a distance in his life. After the trial and his subsequent banishment, he’d walked half of India at least, trying to get from the trade routes in Mumbai to Nepal, where Kamar Taj was rumored to lay. He knew a mile, and while he probably wouldn’t say the dragon was a mile long, it certainly felt that way.

“How this beast breaks down into the metal that forms your armor,” Stephen wondered aloud, “is a mystery that will remain so. One must have, I think, specialized tools, in order to crack this creature out of its hide, in the very first place.”

Stephen steered Tony around yet another puddle of the dragon’s blood, which, on top of everything else, appeared to be somewhat caustic, leaving pockmarks in the stone floor.

Tony snorted. “Just because it’s _called_ dragoniron,” he said, “doesn’t mean it’s actually made from dragons. The stuff I worked was formed into bricks. It’s a special, rare sort of clay, I think.”

“Well, it might be. Logically speaking, a dragon shouldn’t be able to fly. So, its bones are probably hollow, like a bird’s. But they’d have to be very strong, to withstand so much weight, sinew, muscle, I mean, look at the thing!” Stephen was aware he was rambling, dizzy with pain and lingering headwound. Almost, he thought with a sigh that wasn’t quite a giggle, like being drunk.

Tony leaned away to give Stephen a dubious look. “You don’t mean you actually think I’m walking around here carrying the reshaped bones of long-dead dragons?”

“I think so, yes,” Stephen said. “You walk around wearing the skin of long-dead cows, I’m not sure how it’s different. Except, you know, the cow doesn’t fight back. Much.” Stephen laughed again, snorting. Definitely like being drunk.

Tony huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I can tell you’re thinking calmly and rationally right now,” he teased.

Tony took another step and the floor… clinked.

Like metal on metal instead of metal on stone. Like a merchant, counting out change. Stephen pulled them to a stop, bent over, straining at the pain in his muscles, the ache in all his bones from what had been a fall that surely should have killed them. “What--” He reached out, tentative, with broken fingers prodding at the ground and found a coin. Two coins. Three. A half dozen. He plucked one up to show it in the light.

Spin’s glimmer was all they had in the way of illumination, better than fumbling around in the dark, but not good for seeing anything more than the general openings in the cavern, the bulk of the dragon, each other’s faces in the witch-like glow.

But the coin reflected, ruddy and bright.

“Gold?”

Tony reached over and took the coin from Stephen’s fingers, holding it close to his chest and turning it over to squint at the markings on either side. “I think so,” he said. He shuffled another few steps forward and dropped to one knee to look more closely at the floor. “Oh my God. I think we’ve found the dragon’s lair,” he said. It came out sounding reedy, as if the breath had been knocked out of him.

“Lair…” Stephen said, “Old English, _leger_ , meaning to rest or lay down, from the German, _legraaz_ , also, illness, death. Or, sometimes, a wedding. Germans are remarkably flexible that way. I feel… quite a bit dizzy.” The Cloak wouldn’t let him fall, not while he was wearing it, but there was that ripple of fabric along his shoulders that sometimes reminded him that the Cloak had its own motivations and thoughts, and dropping him on his demented, wizardly ass wasn’t against its moral code.

“Whoa!” Tony stumbled a little as Stephen leaned into him harder. “Yeah, let’s... let’s find a spot for you to sit down for a bit.”

“Lay down,” Stephen mumbled. “In the lair. Yes, that seems appropriate somehow.” Tony brought him over to an elaborately carved teak bench, probably worth a fortune. “The place of laying down. A lair.” He leaned over it, reaching for something sparkling in the pile of gold and chalices and necklaces and gems that were untidily strewn on the floor. “Ah, look, a ring.” He offered it to Tony. “P’raps we’ll get that wedding instead.”

“How very forward of you, Doctor,” Tony said, mock-scandalized, even as he reached to take the ring. “We’ve not even kissed yet.”

There was a solution to that particular problem, and any moment now, Stephen was going to think of it. He licked at his lip, dry and cracked. Wondered what Tony’s mouth would taste like and thought that it would be somewhat rude to offer it in this cold, dark place that reeked of death.

“We-- hold that thought.” Stephen turned his head to the side, listening. A trickle, like water dripping from a stone, soft and subtle, but it made his throat burn and his dry mouth even worse. It had to be water, Stephen thought, as blood was sticky and didn’t flow with the same ease. “There, come, I think--”

He crawled down from the bench, pushed his way through stacks of coins and heavy ropes of pearl and crowns that were pointy and uncomfortable, until he reached the wall. He could barely see, Spin’s glow was weak, but he caught a fluid reflection and made for it until his fingers encountered the wall. A trickle of water made its way through the stone. He held out a hand, until it was wet and sniffed. Dirt, blood, but-- clean water.

“Is there a cup or bowl in this heap of gold?” All the gold in the world, and Stephen would trade it away for a cup of tea and some cookies.

“There must be,” Tony said. “Stay right here. I’ll find something.” The wall went dark as Tony turned away, and Stephen had to put out his hand to keep from falling over, letting the cool water run over his fingers. He could see the glow of Spin that told him where Tony was, even with Tony facing away -- in this darkness, even the slightest light was noticeable -- but it didn’t extend far enough to illuminate very much.

The clink and metallic slither of coins and jewels being shifted was very loud, and went on for what seemed a very long time. But finally-- “Aha!” The light shifted and bobbled as Tony moved, like a will-o-wisp in the forest.

Pause. “Stephen?”

“I’m here, my dar--” Stephen interrupted himself with another ragged cough, more forced than necessary. In the darkness, lost under the earth, it seemed such a little thing to say, and yet, so very big at the same time. The blackness made it easier. He got his face under the little trickle of water and let it splatter on his forehead, chin, ah, finally, a few drops in his mouth. “I’m here, darling,” he said again.

Pause. “Darling?” Tony sounded amused, though his voice broke on the word.

“I did just give you an enormous betrothal ring,” Stephen pointed out. “The least you can do is accept some endearments.”

Tony turned back toward him -- Spin was almost painfully bright, suddenly -- with a soft chuckle. “So you did,” he agreed. “Keep talking. I got all turned around and I can’t see you.”

“A fact for which you should be grateful,” Stephen said. “I can’t imagine I look aught but a fright. Your mother would heartily disapprove, I’m sure, at such a ragged creature making you an offer, honorable as it would be. And, you know, supported by a very large diamond. I cannot say for any certainty, but I know of crown jewels that are less lovely. Which does not even begin to touch the wealth that surrounds us. What--” He was rambling again, and bordering on the very edge of making an _actual offer_ to Tony, and shut his mouth with a snap.

He covered it well enough by stretching out his uninjured hand and grabbing the rough fabric of Tony’s shirt. “Here, darling, the water, here.”

Tony stepped closer and looked up as Spin’s light encompassed them both, his eyes dark and mysterious in the eerie blue light, but his mouth curved into a smile. “I’m sure I don’t look any more well-groomed,” he pointed out, “so we’re well-matched, however many vapors it might give my mother.” He held in his hand a jewel-studded goblet. He pressed it against the wall and tipped it just enough to make the water flow into it.

It seemed to take endless years for the goblet to fill, but Tony pressed it into Stephen’s hand as soon as it was done. “Here, you first. I don’t like the sound of that cough.”

A few sips on his dry tongue and down his parched throat were like fine wine, delicious and perfect, despite grit from the wall, the faint taste of the rock and earth it had passed through to get to them. He drank about half of it, and pushed the cup at Tony. He needed to breathe, and cough, and let his stomach and lungs settle.

“There must be a better source,” Stephen reasoned, his head a little clearer. “A beast of that size would not be able to survive on that trickle.”

“There must be an opening big enough for it to pass through,” Tony pointed out. “If it was able to bring all this treasure in, then surely there will be a way for us to get out. I wish I knew the _time_. It may only be so dark because it is night, and the rising of the sun will illuminate our way.” He sighed. “Or not. It would be easier if I knew.”

Stephen raised his face toward the dark ceiling, trusting the Cloak to keep him upright. He willed himself out of his body, toward the sky, to see--

Pain, a great crackle of it, seared through his brain, and he found himself back in his own body, snapped there like a green stick, thoroughly aware of every ache and twinge in his body. “So much for that plan,” he said, annoyed. Astral projection was one of the very first skills he had learned, the easiest thing for a novice to-- “Oh.” He considered Tony. “How do you feel about the idea of learning to use magic?”

***

Tony stared at Stephen. “Me,” he said, flat and disbelieving. “Use magic.”

“It’s not completely impossible,” Stephen said. “At one point, I was even more of a skeptic than you. And look what I can -- usually -- do now.”

Tony grunted. “And how long did it take you to learn it? I don’t know that we’ve got time for this right now.”

“About three seconds,” Stephen said. “Admittedly, the Ancient One knocked my spirit right into the astral realm like one might flick a fly off a wall. But perhaps an hour, after I knew it was possible.” He touched Tony’s arm, steadying himself. “There’s no pain in the astral realm, no weariness. Your mind goes where your body cannot follow. Pass through walls, like a ghost. With some effort, you can speak with those on the other side. I… you could learn, find Wong, get a message to him. It would cost a little time now, but save much, later.”

Tony made a face. “We can try,” he said doubtfully. “For a little while. And then we’ll try something else. Fair?”

“All right,” Stephen said. “I would do it myself, but-- I think I hit my head too hard. Don’t laugh, a concussion is one of the worst minor injuries a sorcerer can have.”

“I’m not laughing,” Tony said. He’d been concussed a few times himself; it was awful, made him feel like his brain had been wrapped tightly in cotton wool so that every effort of intellect made his head ache, made him lose track of his thoughts, made him feel stupid and slow. He set the goblet down and shook stray water droplets off his fingers. “Tell me what to do.”

“Here, sit, no, face away from me, I’ll hold you up while you’re not inside your own body,” Stephen folded himself into a graceful position, thighs bracketing Tony when he sat, almost like a human chair. Close your eyes and breathe. Just breathe. Try to let your thoughts settle. I know it’s hard, the hardest part, when everything seems important and urgent. Just let it go, it’ll all be here when you come back. Imagine a featureless field of snow, white in all directions. Soft. You’re not cold. That white blankness, covering everything, keeping it safe.”

His voice was cadenced and careful, a rhythm that Tony found himself breathing with.

He tried to stop his thoughts, but they didn’t want to stop. He’d quash one, only to have another leap to the forefront. And when that one was silenced, then yet another would turn up. Stephen’s voice was nice, calming and smooth, and Tony tried to just focus on that, but that made his thoughts veer sharply toward the... whatever it was, between them, and wondering where it might go, and--

_Damn it, stop thinking._ Tony huffed and shook his head like a dog shaking off water. “I don’t think I can do this,” he complained.

“You have to let go,” Stephen said, gently. “The hardest thing, and the easiest thing in the world. We cling to this shell that makes us up, as if it is the most important part of our very self. But you are more than that, so much more. This is a way to set that part free.” He leaned closer, hands going around Tony’s chest, like an embrace. “I used to use it to study, while my body would sleep.” He dangled that thought like a prize. How many years had Tony fought with sleep because he needed that _time_?

“Breathe in, and let it go.” Stephen inhaled again. “Or, imagine the thing you want most, need desperately, it’s escaping you, and you have to follow it. Reach for it, with your mind, not your hands. It’s getting further away, and you have to let go your hold on your body, in order to take possession of it.”

Tony tried to think of something he wanted more than this, than Stephen’s arms around him and Stephen’s voice warm and soothing in his ear. An end to this adventuring, perhaps, to go home and settle into a quiet life of study and companionship, with Stephen at his side. He could almost taste it, a yearning like physical pain, stretching with everything in him, _reaching--_

The cave wasn’t dark at all, but lit with an odd, silvery-gray light. Tony blinked and then turned to ask if Stephen could see it. But Stephen was sitting several feet away, leaning against the wall, with Tony’s _body in his arms_ \--

Tony jolted upright, gasping as the pain of his battered body slammed back into his consciousness. “What the fuck?” he croaked. His heart was racing, his eyes stretched wide in the darkness. “Oh my god, what the _fuck_.”

“So startled, darling,” Stephen said, his voice still soft and soothing. “Did you forget, and look back? I did that, overshot the moment. Sent myself back to near the beginning of time before I returned to my own shell.” There was an amused tenor to his voice. “I could feel you leaving me.”

“I didn’t-- Didn’t go anywhere,” Tony said, half-panting from the adrenaline rush. “There was the cave and then I looked at... At _us_ , and as soon as I realized what had happened I was back in my... my body.” He couldn’t resist patting at his own face and arms and chest, feeling the rush of his heart beating, reassuring and steady, if still fast.

“But you did it,” Stephen said. “The first step is often the hardest. Give yourself a moment, and try again. Reach for Wong, he is the best to help us, to bring light and find a way through.”

It remained unspoken that Wong, too, had been involved in the fighting, and it was possible that the taciturn librarian was buried under a somewhat different pile of debris, although it was difficult to imagine that anything might happen to Wong that couldn’t be dismissed with a raised eyebrow and a sardonic comment.

“Okay,” Tony said, more to himself than to Stephen. “Okay, I can do this, I can...” He took a few deep breaths, willing his racing heart to slow, and let himself lean back against Stephen’s chest. “I can do this. Wong. Find Wong, get help. Right.” He closed his eyes and tried to push his thoughts away again.

It wasn’t any easier this time.

Eventually, after even _more_ time spent fighting with his restless mind, Tony opened his eyes to that same strange gray light, and this time he knew what to expect when he turned around to see Stephen sitting against the wall with an unconscious Tony in his arms.

Now that he was looking, Stephen glowed golden. Just a little. Like there was a small candle situated in his torso. Spin glowed in Tony’s chest, a swirling bright blue that, despite its strength, did nothing to illuminate anything around him. He had to look closely for Zero’s aura, a pinprick of soft white, like the faintest of stars in the sky.

“Okay,” he said to himself. He’d done it, and all he had to do was go find Wong.

Stephen’s hand moved, lifted to brush the hair from Tony’s forehead with a gesture so tender that Tony ached just watching it.

Even as he watched, another light flickered, flashed, a searingly bright green that Tony felt sure would have left physical eyes with spots floating in front of them for long minutes. It seemed to come from _Tony_... No. Tony’s _pocket_.

Did astral projections have pockets? Tony fumbled for his, feeling around in them. All that was there was the ring Stephen had given him earlier.

The green light flared again, and the ghost-ring in Tony’s hand flickered with it, as if they were connected. Oh, god, had they _literally_ stumbled over the very ring they’d come to find? What was this one called -- Blast?

Tony grinned and put the ring back in his pocket. “You owe me a new ring,” he told Stephen, then turned to find his way out.

Wong. He had to find Wong.

He discovered that he could walk through walls when he tripped over his own feet and fell into one. He would have expected the inside of a wall to be dark, but it wasn’t. Inside the wall, Tony could see the wall’s structure, how it curved out and around and -- most importantly -- up. It stretched upward to become the ceiling of the cavern, then beyond that to the surface of the mountain.

Tony wondered if he could climb inside the wall, or float like a ghost -- and as soon as he’d thought it, he began to drift upward.

As it turned out, dropping a dragon on a mountain was really, really bad for the surrounding countryside. The air was full of dust, thick and yellow. Boulders and chunks of rock and dirt were sprayed out for dozens of acres, and half the top of the mountain was missing. Well, it wasn’t _missing_ , exactly, it was all over the place. But it really changed the shape of the land.

Tony perched on a rock, trying not to think about how he’d just floated through it a moment ago, because every time he thought about that, he started sinking, which was unhelpful. It was hard to see, even in his astral form. Astral dust, he supposed.

Where would Wong wander, if Wongs were wearily wandering? He snickered. Better not repeat that to Wong; he did not tend to find either Tony or Stephen particularly funny.

Water. That would be anyone’s first stop; camp sites were always near the closest source of fresh water.

Once he’d thought that, he could almost feel the stream, or at least, the astral realm felt a little… wetter in that direction. Tony decided he needed to stop thinking about this immediately, or he was going to get really, really flummoxed.

Well, it was a way to go and an idea, he decided, floating down the side of the mountain rubble. Water, and--

Was that a glow? Another one, a lot larger than Stephen’s, reddish-orange in color. Might as well. It wasn’t like anyone could see him like this, right?

Wrong.

Wong looked up from his campfire as soon as Tony walked into the firelight. Wong was immediately in a combat position, a runed mystical staff appearing in his hands. Wong didn’t quite seem to know what he was looking at, or for, as his gaze passed over Tony several times.

“Show yourself,” Wong barked.

Huh. That red-orange glow wasn’t the fire. It was _Wong_. “I don’t know how to show myself,” Tony told him testily. He waved his hands around in front of Wong’s face. “Come on, I’m right here!”

He eyed Wong’s staff. Magic things seemed to behave a little differently here than in the real world. Maybe... He put his hand at the end of the staff and pushed at it. “Come on, right here!”

Wong jerked his staff back and stared around again. “You’re very clumsy,” he said. “I know you’re--”

“ _\--here_.” Suddenly there was a second Wong, but this one was on the side of the astral plane with Tony, grabbing him with firm hands, leaving glittering shackles behind on Tony’s wrists. “Stark?”

Tony blinked down at the reddish shackles, then looked back up at Wong. “Kinky,” he said. “I approve. Yeah, Stephen sent me to find you. We’re sort of trapped inside the mountain, and he’s out of magic go-juice.”

“You should be more careful,” Wong said. “I only set a mystical boundary, to act as a guard to things on the other side. Others set traps. If you project over our friend, Mordo’s camp, you will find yourself in a very bad situation. And I am not speaking of Mordo’s cooking. But yes, follow the path back to your body, and I will accompany you.” He dissolved the magical shackles with a single tap.

“Yeah, okay,” Tony agreed. He turned around to look back the way he’d come. “Just... as soon as I figure out where it is.”

“I have known _rocks_ with more latent talent for the mystical arts,” Wong huffed. He reached out, tapped Tony’s chest, hard, with one finger. “Look, follow the heart line, it will lead you back. Unless someone moves you, while you are out. That… could be bad.”

Tony didn’t have any idea what Wong was talking about, and then, he suddenly did. There was a faint, silvery wisp, like just a trickle of mist, dangling from his finger, a thread that led back through the mountain rubble.

“Oh. Huh. Yeah, okay, I’ll just... follow that.” He glanced back to make sure Wong was with him, then followed the slender trail back. Going down through the rocks was, oddly, harder than it had been going up through them. Why? Who knew? Certainly not Tony, who was just doing his best to ignore Wong’s increasingly impatient grumbling.

As soon as they were in the cave, Tony was drawn to his body, like a needle to a magnet. It pulled him in so fast that he almost fought it, instinctively, and then he was opening his eyes to the weight of darkness.

Stephen’s arms tightened around him as Tony struggled to sit. Wong, or at least a shadowy, transparent apparition that looked like Wong, as if a portrait had leaned through the wall. Very disconcerting, honestly, and he could have waited, Tony thought, until Tony had caught his breath. “I have you located. Don’t move from this spot and I will join you shortly.”

“Does he think we’re likely to go for a romantic stroll?” Tony wondered.

“Would you settle for a romantic nap?” Stephen asked, still stroking Tony’s hair as if he hadn’t quite noticed that Tony was back. Or if there wasn’t anything else he wanted to be doing.

“I would.” Tony let himself sink deeper into Stephen’s arms, already dreading the moment when Wong would return for them and he’d have to actually get up and move his battered body. “Today has been just _exhausting_.”

“Just rest, darling.” Stephen shifted, a little, and pressed a soft kiss against Tony’s hair.  “I’m right here.”


	16. Chapter 16

Peculiar, Stephen thought, how much the nameless derelict ship was beginning to feel like _home_.

Tony had done so much work to it that it was almost comfortable, a great deal sturdier than it used to be, and he’d increased the efficiency of the sails, just on the off chance that anyone would actually want to sail it _without_ magic. Or in the case of necessary maneuverings, Stephen supposed. Tony’s rigging was a lot easier to use to get them into and out of ports.

Wong had given Stephen a very proper scolding about teaching the mystical arts to someone so desperately mundane. There’d been little alternative, but Stephen was left chilled to his bones about what could have happened to Tony, in the astral plane. Any number of beasts that resided in that place would have found him a tasty and defenseless morsel.

All of which meant he probably owed Tony an apology for putting him at so very much risk.

Stephen preferred, greatly, to have some sort of token, when he went to apologize. A gift, along with his few words, to appease. But Wong had also been injured by the dragon, and they were still short a sling ring. Getting anything that wasn’t ship’s food at this point… well, Wong would call him an idiot and just tell him to get on with it.

So…

He pushed out of his cabin and crossed to the crowded room that had probably once been storage and that Tony had made into a combination bedroom and workshop. “Tony?”

“Right here,” Tony said from the stool at his workbench. He was whittling something with a very small, very sharp knife, but he looked up with a warm smile. “What can I do for you?”

Safe. Tony was, at least for the moment, safe. The ache in Stephen’s bones faded, just a little. “I suppose you probably heard Wong castigating me for being careless with your spirit,” he said. “He was not at pains to keep his voice down.”

Tony looked amused. “He’s always grumbling about something. Would he have preferred we die of thirst in a cave?”

“Perhaps,” Stephen said. “At least your… the part of you that makes you-- well, _you_. That part, your soul, if you will. Death of the body, that is one thing. But to extinguish, beyond hope of recovery, that which makes _Tony Stark_ a brilliant flame? He was right to chide me. Of course, I took a calculated risk, and I am not entirely bad at math. What fool thing would care to be in the vicinity of an angry dragon? Still. You will, I hope, forgive me.”

Tony looked bemused, as if he did not entirely understand the full consequence of what had happened. “If you want my forgiveness, you have it,” he said easily. “Nothing terrible happened, after all.”

“Thank you,” Stephen said. He hesitated, hand on the doorframe. “Still, you should be cautious, if you decide to experiment with the ability. Leave someone to guard your body, if you can. I would--” He broke off. Of course he’d be happy to guard Tony’s body. There were a lot of things Stephen might want to do; just _holding_ Tony had seemed a great liberty.

Tony laughed. “I’m not likely to attempt it again. It was all I could do to let go in the first place. I’ll leave the magical wandering to you.”

“Do you play piano?” Stephen asked him, suddenly. He could imagine it, a tiny child, hovering over the family’s instrument, while an adult placed half-sized hands on the keyboard, taught him how to read music, all hail Mozart and the middle C.

Tony stopped, stared at Stephen in confusion. “Do I... Uh. A little. It’s been years.”

“Taught when you were a child, I imagine. This great big instrument, and suddenly, music. We’re so much more open to learn when we’re children. Everyone recommends it; to teach when children are young, that they may not have learned ‘I cannot do it.’ And there you are, tiny and insignificant and utterly unaware of your own insignificance. Suddenly, music.” Stephen looked down at his own hands. The things his hands had once been able to do. “Magic is the same. Except we’ve been told all our life that it cannot be done.”

Tony spread his hands and shrugged. “I’m not denying its existence. How could I? But I’m much more comfortable with tools that fit in my hands, creating things which conform to the natural laws.”

_I would have preferred that, as well_ , Stephen thought. He wasn’t sure he meant it, though. Would he have been happy, truly happy, toiling away, doing what he did in relative obscurity, never seeing the world behind the end of his fingertips. “Well, perhaps you will never again have the need. I have the most ridiculous need, I shall tell you, to see that you are given as many tools in the defense of your life and soul as you can have. I find myself wishing for nothing more desperately than your safety and success.”  

Tony looked startled, and then hopeful, his expression softening. He opened his mouth to speak--

“Safety is not on offer today,” Wong said, pushing into the room. “There’s a fleet closing in on our position. Let’s focus our efforts on success, shall we?”

“Fleet? What fleet?” Stephen objected. The entire _point_ of being out on the ocean was that they could not easily be found. “Whose fleet?” That might even be the more important question.

He didn’t wait for Wong to answer; Wong was only going to roll his eyes and suggest that Stephen go look for himself anyway. Might as well just move directly to the point. Up to the rail and--

“Where the hell did they come from?” Stephen demanded of nothing and no one and everyone all at the same time. “How many do you count, Tony?” A virtual forest of masts, a laundry basket full of sail. “Nine?”

Tony came up next to him at the rail and lifted a spyglass to his eye. “Nine,” he confirmed after a moment, and then he offered the glass to Stephen with a grim look. “Have a look at the command ship, and tell me I’m wrong about her captain.”

Stephen took the glass, murmured a few words of casting, holding it in place, as he didn’t dare trust his hands. “Karl,” he said. Like a blessing and a curse, a prayer for help, and a talisman against ill fortune all at once. He swiveled the glass carefully, directing it with a few sweeping gestures. “Where did he find such a crew?” He squinted, trying to bring the sailors into focus. “Mhuruuks? Or mercenaries?”

“We shall hope for the latter,” Wong said. “Servants from the Dark Dimension would be dire, a plague on this world.”

“It’s what our Order was founded to fight against,” Stephen said. “Surely, Karl wouldn’t--”

“You have more faith in him than I do,” Wong said. “Or you vastly underestimate his sense of disillusionment.”

“What’s a Murk?” Tony interjected, half-lifting a hand like a child in a classroom.

“An extradimensional being; humanoid, but non-human,” Stephen said. “Like the fairies, although without the sense of honor that fairies have. Powerful in the magical arts.” He swallowed hard. “As soon as they’re close enough-- the ship? They can tear all our wards and castings apart like you’d tear paper.”

Tony grimaced. “Great. Tell me they’re at least vulnerable to bullets and blades.”

“Quite,” Wong said. “Their bodies are fragile, even more so than ours. Time to wish you’d practiced more with the staff, Stephen.”

“This is not the opportunity to say I told you so,” Stephen protested.

“Should I get on your calendar now?”

“That’s not funny,” Stephen said. “Don’t you dare laugh, Tony, you’ll only encourage him.”

Tony held up his hands, despite clearly smirking, but his humor dropped fast when he looked back out toward their pursuers. “Well. If they’re confined to normal human speeds, we’ve got a little time before they’ll be within cannon range; I’m going to go see what I can do to make sure we don’t sink immediately if they strip away your spells.” He met Stephen’s eyes, started to speak, then shook his head and turned on his heel, striding across the deck toward the hatch that led to the lower decks.

***

Things weren’t quite as dire as Tony had made them sound. He’d been patching the ship’s hull since coming aboard, as time and materials allowed. It only took him an hour or so to make the rounds of the weakest spots and add bracing supports and extra tar. Which left him some time to rig up a few surprises for their unwanted guests.

Mordo was vain, sincerely confident in his belief that magic was the superior weapon. He would attack them on the magical front almost exclusively, as his malevolently magical allies proved. Tony had no hope of beating him on that battlefield, even with Spin’s help.

And Mordo’s entire goal was the retrieval of the rings they’d already gathered, so they couldn’t summon them back to help with their defenses. If they fell, it was as good as giftwrapping the rings and offering them to Mordo on a silver platter.

But Tony knew mundane weapons like few men alive. He climbed up into the rigging and swarmed over the deck, issuing orders to Stephen and Wong about how to place and arm the devices he’d created. He laced the ship with deadly traps, hidden blades and explosive caches of gunpowder and iron grapeshot, triplines and even a couple of springboard traps. He worked feverishly, all the while keeping one eye on the approaching fleet, constantly revising their timeline.

He didn’t know if they’d survive the attack, but if they fell, by God, they’d take an honor guard of the bastards with them.

“Instant spells,” Wong was saying, “are the best-- fast as thought, they cannot be interrupted. Their shields will be quite strong. Quick, and clever, for neither of us will be strong enough to batter them down.”

“Clever’s an idea,” Stephen said. “Tony, do you have any portable, simple to use, explosives?”

Tony dashed to the workshop, coming back with a bucket of cloth sachets filled with gunpowder and gravel. “I hadn’t quite worked out how to set them alight,” he said, “but if you can start a fire quickly with magic, then these should work well.”

“I can,” Stephen said. “Fire is one of the basic building blocks of the universe. It is almost terrifyingly simple to conjure. A fact to keep in mind, as our ship is as combustible as theirs. Nonetheless, I think I have an idea. I shall do what Karl expects of me, what he believes that I will do. And because he believes it, he can fall right into our trap.”

“What does he expect you to do?” Tony wondered, even as he donned his armor.

“He expects me to value life, as much as I ever have,” Stephen said. “He expects, in other words, that I will _surrender_. And he will let me aboard his ship, believing me humbled, to accept that surrender.”

“You’re going to go aboard his ship? Are you _mad_? Even if you succeed in blowing up the command ship, there are _eight more of them!_ ”

Stephen moved his arms in front of his chest, palms together, as if he was going to lead a Sunday school prayer. And then--

Another pair of arms circled over Stephen’s head, and then another, and another. Tony had seen Stephen do this before. It was no less unnerving for being a repeat performance.

“And there can be eight more of me,” Stephen said, and they stepped out from behind him, keeping to the shadows, staying hidden. “The hard part will be getting all the ships close enough that we--” He gestured to the copies of himself. “--can get aboard quickly enough. They will be distracted by the surrender, but the less time we have to be caught, the better.”

Tony didn’t like it, but Stephen was right; if he could get aboard all nine ships simultaneously, then he stood the greatest chance of disabling Mordo’s fleet. “Wong and I will distract them,” Tony said. “Be careful.”

“The best thing about a spell like this,” a Stephen told him, and even Tony couldn’t tell which one was the real Stephen, the original one, and which ones were copies, “is that it is already done. No time to interrupt. You can’t, after all, unbake a cookie.”

“Show off,” Wong sniffed, disdainfully. “We will need a lot of smoke and noise and confusion.”

Tony grinned at Wong. “Smoke and noise, I can do.”

The fleet following them drew closer. A small squad of the Mhuruuks, in armor that looked like it might have been stolen from forgers who may have once seen a painting of what armor was supposed to look like, spun themselves wings made from runes and light. A forward attack, high ground advantage.

Wong already had armed himself with a sling, spinning up, as natural with it as David against the giant. A quick release and one of the creatures fell out of the sky and sank into the sea. Whatever other uses the armor might have had, it did not float. The Mhuruuk did not resurface.

Tony let Spin carry him up into the air and aimed his pistols. “Come on then and try me!” he yelled. He shot twice, the report thundering in his ears, and two more of the Mhuruuk dropped into the dark water.

Tony hoped that would give them some pause; reloading pistols was a time-consuming process. He dropped them and drew his sword instead.

More sling rocks filled the air, more than Wong could have been firing on his own; Tony glanced down to see each rock as it left the cup, duplicating itself the same way Stephen had mirrored himself.

One of the creatures grabbed Tony’s arm, attempted to dash him back down to the deck and Tony got his first close-up look at the thing. He sort of wished he hadn’t, or that whoever had stolen their armor had gotten faceplate helmets while they were at it. The Mhuruuk was hairless, with neither eyebrows or eyelashes, and its vaguely humanoid features were subtly wrong. It messed with Tony’s sense of what a person should look like: not so alien as to be dismissed, just human enough to tug uncomfortably at Tony’s brain.

Its eyes, lidless and browless, were too far apart and too small. It had only the bare suggestion of a nose, and a mouth that opened sideways, revealing row upon row of teeth, like a shark.

Spin thrust it away from him, the Ring almost as disgusted as Tony was by the monster.

Tony thrust out with his sword at another, and swung his armored fist at the thing’s revolting face.

A glance downward revealed a shimmery sort of shadow slipping over the rail as one of Stephen’s duplicates made its way to the Mhuruuk ships. Tony redoubled his attacks, shouting and taunting, trying more for “loud” than “effective”.

“Starboard side, fire--” Stephen yelled from below deck. Tony had no idea which Stephen it was, or how many remained on the ship, but suddenly the entire cannonade erupted, the artillery slamming back into their cradles, shaking the ship. Cannonballs and grapeshot peppered the ocean, the ships across from them. Smoke filled the air, sulphur wafted on the breeze.

A huge hole tore, jagged and ugly, in one of the opposing ships. A moment later, a shimmer of orange runes blocked the gaping wound, keeping the seawater out. But holding the shield must take energy and concentration. _There!_ Tony spotted the Mhuruuk that had to be casting it, weaving its fingers and muttering.

Tony consulted with Spin, coaxing the Ring into doing what he wanted, making sure it understood. He lifted higher and higher into the air, then dove downward like a stooping hawk, too fast for the other flying creatures to intercept. He crashed straight into the caster, knocking it over, and then veered back up into the air. He was higher than the tallest mast when he paused and looked back down at what he’d wrought.

Confusion appeared to be the order of the day; even given that they held the numerical advantage, the Mhuruuks suffered from a lack of tactics. They threw spells, dissolved the shielding on Tony’s ship, but they all attacked as individuals. As if they’d never worked together before, as if the very concept of cooperation was anathema to them.

Tony caught a brief glimpse of Stephen, moving in and out on one ship, a swirl of darkness. He kept to his promise, even against extradimensional magic monsters, bringing the main sail down on top of a group of them. Capture, not kill. Disable and disarm, rather than destroy.

Tony thought of warm arms holding him in the darkness and a voice whispering, “darling,” and wondered how he could possibly be worthy of such goodness.

Then another Mhuruuk crashed into him, trying to knock him out of the sky, and Tony shook off the moment of melancholy. This was no honorable fight, but a struggle for survival. He would beg for Stephen’s pardon when it was over, if he must, but he had no intention of giving any of them the chance to hurt him or his.

Tony blasted the horrible thing with Spin and then swung his sword. This one seemed to have a slightly better grasp of how its armor worked than its compatriots, as it managed to turn the blade. Its hands started moving, casting some sort of spell, and Tony grabbed its wrists, twisting. It wasn’t strong enough to break Tony’s grip, but it took all Tony’s concentration to hold on. They grappled for some moments, the Mhuruuk snapping at Tony with its razor-looking teeth, until it suddenly went limp.

Tony looked down to see Wong looking up at him, one eyebrow raised drily. Tony dropped the thing and tossed a lazy salute in Wong’s direction before turning to block the next attacker.

They weren’t organized, but sheer numbers overwhelmed, as numbers tended to do. Even the best math and tricks in the world could only shift the odds so much. Spin complained of exhaustion and then Tony was on the deck, magical blade at his throat.

“Mordo, wait,” Stephen cried out. “Wait, wait. Spare my compatriots… spare them--”

“You form the strangest attachments to people,” Mordo said, coming to the rail of his own ship and shouting across. “It is a weakness. I have but to threaten one--” He gestured and the blade at Tony’s throat pushed closer, spilling a few drops of blood, a slender, impossibly tiny cut.

“Don’t-- don’t hurt him.” Stephen lunged forward. “Don’t hurt him, I’ll… spare his life. I’ll give you the rings.”

“Stephen, no!” Tony croaked. Had to make it look convincing. “Don’t give in!”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Stephen said. “There’s no other way.” He swirled the Cloak into action, floated across to Mordo’s ship. “Let them go, recall your troops. I will give you the rings when they are underway.”

“And how do you trust, Stephen, that I will not just chase them down, as soon as I have the rings?” Mordo brushed his fingers down Stephen’s cheek, like a lover’s caress. “How are you that trusting, that foolish. Give me what I want, or I will take it. You have no choice. None at all.”

“I still believe, in spite of all this,” Stephen said, “that you are a good man. That you have stumbled from the path, but you have not yet fallen. Please, dear friend, please. I am begging you, step away from this. Let this go.”

Mordo jerked his chin, and the Mhuruuks retreated, leaving Wong and Tony behind on their ship.

“Come on, don’t just stand there,” Wong said, nudging Tony. “We need to get underway, put as much space between us and them as we can.”

“But he’s...” Tony reluctantly stood and went to help Wong shift the sails, but he couldn’t stop looking back over to Mordo’s ship.

They were barely clear of the circle of enemy ships when the first explosion tore the mast right off of one, cracking the ship like an egg. The mast toppled, cut a jagged tear in the ship closest to it, before that ship, too, exploded. The sachets had been set to disable the ships, cut the masts, blow holes in the hull.

On Mordo’s ship, Stephen spread his arms wide--

_And exploded._


	17. Chapter 17

“No!” Tony ran for the rail. Spin was still exhausted; there was no way he could cross the distance. He didn’t care. He would swim, if he had to. “Stephen!”

“Stark!” Wong bellowed. “Sail, if you wish this to all not have been in vain. We must put distance between our ship and theirs before they regroup.” There was a jerk as Wong summoned wind, pushing the sails to full.

What did Tony care if they were captured, now? Without Stephen, his heart had been ripped from his chest. He put a hand up, almost expecting to feel a gush of hot blood pouring from the wound.

Instead, his fingers covered Spin.

If Stephen had died, he had died to protect the Rings. However little Tony cared, he could not let that be, as Wong said, in vain. Tony gritted his teeth and took hold of the lines, pulling the sails around to get the most from Wong’s summoned wind.

“If you don’t mind,” Stephen said, from-- from below? Off the side of the ship, he clung to one of the ropes, soaked to the skin. The Cloak itself appeared like a wet, unhappy dishrag. “I could use some assistance?”

“Oh my God! Stephen!” Tony raced to pull him up, straining to move steadily so he wouldn’t jar Stephen and make him lose his grip. “Oh, God, I thought you were--” He swallowed hard.

“It figures,” Wong said. “He is enough of a pacifist, he will not even sacrifice _himself_.”

“I prefer to think of myself as preserving as many lives as possible, _including_ my own.” Stephen fell onto the deck. “As it is, it was a near thing. And having three of my mirror copies slain was not entirely without pain.”

Tony couldn’t resist the urge to pull Stephen into his arms. He didn’t even try. He just tucked his face into Stephen’s neck and shivered violently as he tried to convince himself it was _real_.

“Is anyone going to help me sail this ship?” Wong wondered. “No, of course not. As usual, it’s just me.”

“And you’ll do a grand job, as always. Remind me to give you a raise,” Stephen said. “Ten percent, at least.” He was absently stroking Tony’s hair. “There, there, darling. I’m well. Truly, I am.”

“Let me see here, ten percent of zero is… oh, look, zero. I shall retire at once from this adventuring life and get a home on the beach,” Wong muttered.

Tony drew a deep, shuddering breath, and made himself pull away. He would appreciate the fact that Stephen still lived once they were all out of mortal peril. “A little warning would have been nice,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I wasn’t quite certain what I was going to do, until it was done,” Stephen said, struggling to get to his feet. “But I felt it would be prudent if one of the copies made the attempt on Mordo’s vessel. It was always possible that he had a trick or two up his own sleeve.”

Tony helped Stephen up and couldn’t quite resist one more firm hug before he turned to work. He set the sails and then took the helm, hoping to get as far as possible from Mordo and the remnants of his fleet before Wong ran out of wind.

“Even with magic, it will be some time before they are able to repair their vessels,” Stephen said. “Once the sun is down and we are no longer a dark smudge on the horizon, we will lose them. I shall inspect our ship for damage.” The way Stephen was swaying as he headed below decks, Tony wasn’t entirely certain that the sorcerer wasn’t going to just fall on his face in his bunk, but Tony didn’t call him out, either.

Tony watched the smudge that was Mordo’s fleet until his eyes were straining to find it in the dark. When he’d lost it, he angled the ship in a new direction, lest they be found too easily in the morning, then locked the helm. He waved to Wong, who didn’t _quite_ roll his eyes, but gave that impression nonetheless, and then Tony headed belowdecks, to see if Stephen needed anything.

“--not sure you haven’t already tipped your hand, Karl,” Stephen was saying, voice low and muffled behind the door to his cabin.

Tony froze. Stephen was _talking to Mordo?_ How? _Why?_ Tony crept closer, putting his ear to the door.

“No more than you tipped your own,” Mordo said. “You still hesitate to do what is necessary. This is a burden you don’t need, old friend. You were never meant to hold the Rings.”

“I’m not certain that anyone was meant to hold them,” Stephen said. “Care for some sugar in your tea?”

“Always gracious,” Mordo said. “You know, I’ve missed that. Your attention to the little things, the small comforts of home.”

Mordo was _on their ship_. For God’s sake, _why?_ Tony’s hands curled into fists. If he could take the man by surprise...

“You don’t have to throw it away,” Stephen said. “Karl, I believe that if you were as certain as you claim, we would not be having this conversation. I’m not the only one who’s missed you, in the Sanctum. You would be welcomed back. You have many supporters, friends, students. Is the call of power really that sweet? I find it a terrible burden, personally.”

“But you’ve missed me most of all, haven’t you?” There was a brief chuckle and a clink of china. “You were always so easy to read, putting your heart out there on your sleeve. Striving so much for approval, affection.”

Tony’s lip curled in a silent snarl. Stephen didn’t need to _work_ for approval and affection. He’d _earned_ it, every minute of every day. Anyone who would hold those things over Stephen’s head like that didn’t deserve him.

“We all must do as we feel is right,” Stephen said. “Are you happy with the choices you’ve made?”

Mordo harrumphed. “What we feel is right? That’s twaddle and you know it. Right is written out by the scholars of the winning side. What is right? The rings must be held by a person of power, one who will use their strength wisely.”

“And you think you’re the worthy candidate for the job?”

“Better than you,” Mordo said. “Your plan is, what? To lock them away, to hide them from the world. To never touch them? They will find a way to freedom, Stephen. You can’t save the world from them. You can only save it _with_ them.”  

“Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. They are beyond us, Karl. We can never hope to take up that burden and still be true to ourselves.”

“If you have faith, as you say, in me. In me as a good man, then lay down this burden. Allow me to take it up. With your support, your faith-- we can protect the whole world, Stephen. Don’t give it up.”

Tony shook his head. _No, Stephen. Don’t listen to him. He’s lying to you_. Tony’d had more than enough experience with honeyed words and poisoned intentions.

“I… Karl, you know how much you’ve meant to me, how I looked up to you. You were one of my first teachers, one of my closest and dearest friends. I would give… quite a lot to believe you are sincere. But time teaches many things, and you have shown your colors,” Stephen said. “I will not surrender the rings to your care, and, in fact, will deny them to you to my dying breath and beyond. Kill me, and they will be out of your reach forever.”

A thrill of fear ran down Tony’s spine at the implication. He’d already thought he’d lost Stephen once today. He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ lose him again. He burst through the door. “Mordo!” He charged at the startled sorcerer, fist already raised--

\--and stopped as pain between his ribs suddenly splintered and spread. He looked down to see a knife plunged deep into his body, Mordo’s hand wrapped around the hilt. Tony looked up, bewildered by Mordo’s lack of a magical response. He’d been so certain. So very certain that Mordo would never choose a physical attack. He’d... been wrong?

He looked over at Stephen, whose eyes were only now widening in dismay. Tony opened his mouth, wanting to apologize, wanting to tell Stephen how much he cared, wanting--

***

“That was… remarkably simple,” Karl said. There was a sickening crack as Karl twisted the blade deep in Tony’s chest. “Come, Spin. Join your brothers and sisters.”

Later Stephen would not be able to say if it was horror or magic that held him pinned in place as Karl stole Tony’s ring by force, as Tony coughed and choked out his life at the end of that dagger. As Spin floated through the air, called and answered. If there was reluctance, if the ring felt any loyalty at all to the dying man behind her, Stephen couldn’t see.

All he could see was Tony, his face open-mouthed on a scream he never uttered, eyes blank and lifeless.

All he could hear was a heart, suddenly silenced.

“No, no, no,” Stephen said. “Not Tony, not my Tony--”

Spin joined the other rings decorating Karl’s hand. Five. He had five rings, the same number that Stephen possessed. If Stephen was wearing them, they’d be evenly matched.

Karl kicked Tony over onto his face. “Worthless.” There was no remorse on Karl’s handsome features, no pity. No mercy. “And you-- you loved him, but even now you won’t raise a hand against me. You cling to your ideals so hard that they strangle you. Give me the other rings or I will pick you apart until death seems like a mercy. You’re all out of time, Stephen.”

Time.

He was out of time.

“Yes, well, perhaps you’re right,” Stephen said. He didn’t bother to wipe away the tears he knew were falling. He didn’t look at Karl again, only at Tony’s lifeless form. “All I ever needed--” his hands circled the Eye “--all everyone ever needed… was more time.”

The Time Stone came to him in an instant. _Back--_ he told it and had just a second to see Karl snarling, lunging for him, before everything moved backward.

Slowly, Karl retracted back into his mocking, jeering position. Spin abandoned her place on his hand, returning to Tony’s chest.

Tony uncrumpled from the floor, blood pouring back into his body, his hands thrusting the dagger out of himself and into Karl’s grasp.

Back even further, to when Stephen had come downstairs to rest and found Karl waiting for him in his bunk. His old friend had, indeed, had a trick up his sleeve. The ships had been for show, the Mhuruuks only troops to be expended and abandoned. To seem a threat, while Karl split himself into multiples and boarded their ship, to await the perfect moment.

Two, apparently, could play at that game.

_We are forbidden to tamper with events that have already occurred. The consequences--_

To hell with the consequences.

To hell with everything and anything. Tony… Tony was all that mattered, now.

There was Tony, coming down the galley steps and it was all Stephen could do not to let go of the timestream and take Tony into his arms.

_Stop here. I need… time._

The stillness was unearthly. The Time Stone stopped… everything. The whole world stopped spinning, while Stephen processed his grief, considered his options.

Karl would be there, in Stephen’s cabin. And Tony would burst in, headstrong, determined, impossibly brave. He was a good man, the best, and--

And Karl was right. Stephen loved him. “I’ll save you, darling.”

But how?

He paced between Tony’s frozen form, and his own cabin. Stephen retraced his steps, saw himself, stuck and frozen in time as much as anything else. He could choose to rejoin that past self with his current knowledge, distract Karl somehow--

What… what to do, how to protect the one thing Stephen needed more than anything else in the world.

Anything else in _this_ world.

He reached into Karl’s pocket, the green robe he always wore. Men were creatures of habit. He knew which pocket-- there.

The Time Stone was drawing strength from him. It needed immense power and energy to do what Stephen was asking it to do, keep everything in the entire universe… still. While Stephen made up his mind what to do. An enormous undertaking, and it was taking its toll. He could almost feel himself weakening, melting like a castle made of sand.

“Return,” he told the stone, and stepped into his own body, readying his spell, his very last chance. He -- and the time stone -- would need rest, and every hour after the events passed, it would be harder to drag them backward and do them over again. Every moment that he wasted would make it that much harder to fix this.

He let the stone go, seeped back into himself.

“-- plan is, what? To lock them away, to hide them from the world. To never touch them? They will find a way to freedom, Stephen. You can’t save the world from them. You can only save it _with_ them.”  

Even knowing he’d undone Tony’s murder, Stephen inhaled sharply in shock, not seeing him there. “Do… do you think we could? Save the world? Truly?”

“Of course, old friend,” Karl said, easily.

“Then let me take you to them,” Stephen said, standing up. He swirled the portal into being, between the door and Karl.

“No!” Tony burst through the door. “Stephen, don’t--” His eyes rounded and he stumbled over his own feet, but momentum carried him forward and through the portal. “What--”

Karl backed away from the portal and Stephen summoned every bit of his remaining strength to shove him aside, diving into the portal behind Tony. “Get up, get up. Run!”

Tony clambered to his feet, glancing over his shoulder even as he staggered forward. “Stephen, what the hell, where the _hell_ are we?”

“Mirror universe. Run now, explanations later.” He grabbed Tony’s arm, yanking him through the mirrored version of the ship. He bent the fabric of space around them, opening a hole in the side of the ship that he had to yank Tony through. They didn’t splash through the water, merely ran over the surface as if it were as solid as the ground.

“He’ll be coming after us, soon,” Stephen said, leaving the portal open behind him. A temptation to use energy already expended, Karl would follow them. Into Stephen’s mirror.  “I hope.”

Tony was acquiring a wild-eyed look that they absolutely had no time for. “Oh my God, oh my God, how is this possible?”

“There he is, come on, we need someplace solid,” Stephen said and he shoved the top of Tony’s head, pushing him down into the water. It didn’t act anything like normal water. They sank, steadily, but there was no wetness, no need to hold their breath. Fish and other sea creatures, still swimming, startled away from them, disturbed by their intrusion.

“It’s a mirror universe,” Stephen explained, yanking them both down toward the ocean floor. “An exact duplicate of ours, but none of the rules apply. A place to practice magic in safety, where you can’t hurt anything in the real world.”

“Stephen, we are _under the ocean!_ What happens when we go back to the real world? We drown?!” Tony followed where Stephen led willingly enough, but his tone was taking on a hysterical edge.

“I am not going to let you die again,” Stephen said, squeezing Tony’s hand tight enough that his own fingers ached.

“ _Again?_ ” Tony’s voice spiraled upward.

“Mordo came to speak with me, about the rings. I had hopes--” Stephen risked a glance behind him. “--but he… I had thought it would be a hard thing, to lose faith in him, but now? He crossed a line, and it cannot be uncrossed. He… he stabbed you. I watched you die. The time stone… well, Mordo is not the only one crossing lines, it would seem.”

There! The remains of an old ship. “Help me find somewhere… secure. A room with a door, anything, really.”

Tony gave Stephen a brief, if eloquent look, then tightened his hold on Stephen’s hand and pulled, taking the lead. Stephen could have gotten there faster, pushing through the body of the ship, but Tony knew what he was looking for. There, in the heart of the ship, was a brig, a rough wooden room with steel bars fitted over the window in its door.

“Inside,” Stephen said, and pushed them all the way up against the wall, letting the ship stay solid, unbending.

Karl was so busy chasing them, so certain, so angry, that he didn’t even notice that they could have fled and didn’t. He charged into the brig’s room and Stephen snapped the door shut with his mind.

“Oh, Karl,” he said, soft. “I wish it could have been different.” He tugged Tony with him, lightly, through the wall, and let it solidify behind him. “But you’re in _my_ reality now. And I’m afraid you’ve lost your slingring.”

He didn’t even have to look as Karl Mordo went through his robes, cries growing ever more frustrated and desperate.

“Come on, Tony, let’s go back to the ship.”

Tony glanced back over his shoulder. “You’re going to leave him here?”

“Yes, actually,” Stephen said. “I am. He cannot die here. And he cannot summon help. He can’t leave. Unless someone comes through one of my portals, stays, and happens to trip over him someday, he will be here long enough to seriously consider the consequences of his actions.”

Tony frowned. “He has followers,” he pointed out. “You said. They’ll come looking for him.”

“It’s a big ocean, in a big universe, inside the vastness of my mind. They won’t find him. Not without my help,” Stephen said. “Maybe, someday, someone will find him. And the rings he still carries. Perhaps. I think… I think the rings shouldn’t be together. Even with the best intentions, I might be tempted. Anyone would be. Anyone _could_ be.”

“I just think it’s dangerous, leaving him...” He almost said _alive_ , Stephen could taste it, but Tony changed at the last moment to, “...unguarded.”

“He’s guarded,” Stephen said. “Perhaps better here, locked inside my reality, than anywhere else. A gatekeeper, a stone guardian, and a holder of Rings.” Stephen sighed. “There are getting to be many links in the chains that make up my burdens. We will -- hopefully -- have time to consider, and make other arrangements.”

“Yes, hopefully,” Tony agreed. He didn’t look back again, but his expression was pensive as he followed Stephen back up to the surface. “Sometime, you’ll have to tell me exactly what happened, here.”

“You died,” Stephen said, feeling it cut his heart out again, the same way it had when he witnessed it. The way, he suspected it would, every time he dreamed. “You died and I could do nothing.”

“Well, apparently you _could_ do something,” Tony said. “I’m feeling pretty lively for someone who’s dead.”

“I suppose, in a very real and practical manner, I did,” Stephen said, gesturing to the Eye around his throat. “I _undid_ a thing. So, in a sense, you both died, and you did not die. The only reality in which you died remains locked here.” He thumped his chest with one loosely clenched fist. “Where it shall haunt me.”

“I appreciate it,” Tony said sincerely. “I can’t imagine dead was a good look for me.” He said it flippantly, but he stayed close to Stephen as they walked, his eyes flickering around wildly. “So... what comes next?”

Stephen pulled Tony forward a few more steps until they were solidly inside their ship before he opened the portal, stepping through to the real world. “I believe, my friend, that we are -- somewhat anticlimactic, it’s true -- done.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut-averse readers, you'll want to close the tab when it starts getting steamy; there's nothing plotwise after that.

“Done?” Tony couldn’t quite drag his eyes from the portal until it closed, and then his gaze snapped up to meet Stephen’s. “What do you mean, done?”

“Finished,” Stephen said. His mouth twitched a little, like he was trying to suppress a smile. “I am in possession of five rings, you of one, and Mordo has, it seems, the last four. That’s ten. But then, I need not tell you the math.”

Done. _Done_. This ridiculous, insane adventure around the world was... done? Tony put his hand over Spin, feeling it thrumming just below his skin. “...Oh.” He could... go home? It felt like an odd thought, after so long.

“Insofar as anything of this magnitude can truly be _done_ ,” Stephen said. “There will always be those who attempt to gather items of power. The stones that make up the rings were forged in the stars, come to Earth and given power and enchantments. That calls to people, those who wish to rule, and those who wish to _save the world_. It may never be possible to keep the Rings out of the hands of men. But we can try.”

“Well, for so long as we live, anyway,” Tony said. He looked around the room, dazedly, as if he half expected everything to have changed, somehow. “How do we do that?”

“To some degree, the rings do that work for us; I believe they have accepted a new ring bearer-- you. Spin has certainly claimed you for her own. When you pass, she will move on, and like many of the rings we uncovered before, they will flee to places of testing, places of power. That a new Mandarin can rise and be strong enough to claim the fealty of all of the rings.”

“Well, that’s fine as long as I’m alive, but it doesn’t bode well for future generations,” Tony grumbled.

“It’s that sort of thinking that caused my teacher to look into forbidden and dangerous arts,” Stephen said. “She was not called the Ancient One merely because she looked not a day over forty.”

Tony sighed. “So there’s nothing else we can do?”

“There is nothing we can do, _now_ ,” Stephen said. “We will protect the rings, protect you. But a life in which we’ve stopped learning, stopped striving, that’s not really much of a life. I assure you, we will not just lock the door and forget. Who knows, perhaps one day we can take our quest back to the stars where the rings first came from, return them. Or perhaps, we are the closed and locked door, forgotten, for some other peoples.”

Tony rubbed at his chest, only somewhat mollified. He glanced up at Stephen again, and felt the absurdity of the situation tugging at his lips. “Is it madness to say I... don’t really want it to end?”

“A few days rest in a proper bed wouldn’t go amiss,” Stephen suggested, that smile almost getting away from him. “Dinner. Rolls that wouldn’t break my teeth. If it’s any consolation, I’ve been telling myself ‘just one more thing, and then I can sit back and study, rest, learn to knit.’ My knitting is abominable.”

“Yes?” Tony swayed a little closer. “Perhaps you should take up another hobby instead.”

“It’s called saving the world,” Stephen said. He put a hand lightly on Tony’s arm, helping him balance. “The pay is laughable and the hours quite near intolerable. But there’s steady work to be had.”

“Sounds splendid,” Tony said, laughing. “When do I start?”

“First thing in the morning,” Stephen replied. “I confess, I’m glad to hear it.” His hand shifted until his fingers were loosely linked with Tony’s, that faint tremor like a thrumming pulse against Tony’s palm. “I was not at all looking forward to bidding you good health and long life and live to see you walk out of mine.”

The touch of Stephen’s hand was at once soothing and thrilling. Tony tightened his hold, carefully, not wanting to hurt Stephen’s damaged hands. “I don’t think I could walk away from you if I tried,” Tony admitted. “Not any more.”

Stephen brought their joined hands up to touch Tony’s cheek. “I should miss you,” Stephen suggested. “You’ve become quite… a dear friend to me, in these months. A valued companion, and--” Stephen trailed off, uncertain. “Do you ever-- Tony, do you ever think sometimes that… we got off our path, somehow? It would seem an artefact of the Time Stone, but none other than I have ever known when things have changed. And yet, it seems I’m always a bit, perhaps no more than a step or two, to the left, and I am left floundering.”

Tony studied Stephen’s face. “I... Yes. It feels as though something was started and then never completed. Sometimes. When I look at you...” He shrugged. “I don’t know why. I can only suggest that perhaps we should start again.”

“A theme on my life, perhaps,” Stephen said. “You’ve been a burst of light in dark days, Tony Stark. Hope and joy and brilliance, and a reason to look forward to the future, instead of constantly pursuing the past. Shall we, I wonder, take a chance on the future. Together?” He brushed Tony’s cheek with his scarred knuckles. “You only have to say, if it’s not as you wish it--” Stephen leaned in, those green-blue eyes practically glowing.

Tony felt as if he had never wished for anything else. He closed the distance between them, catching Stephen’s lips with his own. His hand came up, brushing lightly through Stephen’s hair, then pushing into it, the soft curls slipping through his fingers as he pulled Stephen closer, urgent in his sudden need.

Deja vu all over again, in the way that it felt like every first kiss Tony’d ever had, new and exciting, nerves that danced with delight, the hint of uncertainty and anticipation, and yet, in the spaces between his cells, felt just like coming home. That the shape of Stephen’s lips should be so new and yet so familiar at the same time, the taste of his mouth reminding Tony of-- Every time he tried to grasp it, it slipped away like morning mist.

Stephen’s breath sped, puffs of warm air against Tony’s cheek, the flutter of those very long lashes tickling against his skin. “Tony-- Tony, I--” Whatever Stephen wanted to say fell victim to his apparent need to kiss Tony breathless. Tony found himself pushed up against the wooden wall, neatly pinned in place by one of Stephen’s arms and the subtle thrill of Stephen’s mouth on his.

Tony drew Stephen into his mouth, sucked at Stephen’s tongue and scraped his teeth over Stephen’s lips until they were red and swollen, licking over them to soothe the sting. His hand fisted in the fabric of Stephen’s shirt, keeping that lean, warm body pressed against Tony’s. “Yes,” he gasped in between hungry kisses, “yes, everything, Stephen--”

It would been amusing, if it had been anyone else, if the urgency had been the slightest bit less, but they stumbled over each other until the Cloak righted them both and rather firmly shoved them into Tony’s cabin. The Cloak stayed on the outside, and Tony could almost imagine it leaning against the door and wiping away a theoretical line of sweat.

“Well,” Stephen said, eyebrow raised as he looked back at the slammed door. “I suppose he approves, then.”

“Always good to have the approval of family.” Tony caught Stephen’s shirt and dragged him close again for another of those breathless, searing kisses, hands tugging impatiently at Stephen’s shirt, needing to touch skin, to feel the heat of him.

Stephen laughed breathlessly, as Tony yanked at the wound strips of cloth that made up entirely too much of the sorcerer's outfit. Hadn’t anyone brought them news of buttons and laces? But finally, he had it free and Stephen tugged the linen fabric over his head. The lean lines of Stephen’s chest were practically limned in fading sunlight, velvet skin over hard muscle. Stephen made one of those obscure gestures and Tony’s buttons rattled themselves undone, leaving his shirt hanging open. “There, a practical application for some rather showy magic, I believe.”

Tony shrugged out of his shirt and let it fall to the floor, too entranced with Stephen’s body to pay much attention to his own. He slid his hands over the planes of Stephen’s chest, testing the slight curves of his pectorals, the dip of his collarbones, the smooth line of his shoulders.

Stephen brushed a rough hand over Tony’s shoulder, drew a circle like he was marking his place, and touched his lips to the center. Another circle, another kiss, and suddenly it seemed as if there were entirely too many hands, too many mouths. Each lip pressed to Tony’s skin with heat and desire, worshipful and needy, and through it all, Stephen was watching him intently. Loving and tender, eager and thorough. “I have never seen anything quite so lovely,” Stephen told him with all seriousness.

Tony groaned under that onslaught of sensation, pulling Stephen the few steps across the narrow room to tumble over onto his bunk, Stephen’s weight pressing him down into the bedclothes, firm muscle shifting under that smooth skin. “God, you could drive me mad with wanting,” he panted.

Stephen teased him with another half-dozen or so of those mystical kisses before claiming Tony’s mouth with his own. “I shall have to relieve it, then,” he said. With one last, hot kiss, he slid down the length of Tony’s body, hands trailing soft caresses as he went. He nuzzled, soft and a little scratchy with his neat beard, at the sensitive skin of Tony’s belly. Stephen’s fingers flicked again, using magic in place of the dexterity that his injuries had cost him, and peeled back the panel of Tony’s trousers with a few motions and a sizzling incantation. Tony could feel the magic on him, like waves of heat, the same temperature as Stephen’s skin, could smell and taste it, and it was the same; the magic, no longer frightening, but familiar, was as much a part of Stephen as his hands and mouth, as his heart and mind.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be free of wanting you,” Tony said, but he couldn’t look away, watching Stephen’s path down the skin of his belly, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps until he was all but holding it, tensed all over in anticipation and need. “Stephen, oh, what you do to me...”

Stephen paused, perhaps to gauge Tony’s certainty, or to build the anticipation, but when he finally lowered his mouth to stroke Tony eagerly with lips and tongue, Tony felt entire civilizations rise and fall in that endless moment.

When he arched up, Stephen slid his arms under Tony’s thighs, holding him pinned as he swept Tony into a vortex of sensation, wet heat and soft pressure. Varied between teasing licks and enclosing swallows. And all the while, Stephen’s magic swirled around them both, a flick of fire, a brush of velvet. Stephen played to every one of Tony’s senses like a virtuoso, bringing forth not just touches, but scent and smell, a rattle of sound like rain on the roof, a breath of apple blossoms, the familiar dark aftertaste of coffee.

“Oh, _Christ_ ,” Tony swore, fighting not to thrust too hard up into Stephen’s mouth, into that perfect heat. “You’re-- you’re a _menace_. You’ve spoiled me for anyone else, already. And how am I supposed to follow this?”

“You are already everything I need,” Stephen said. “Everything that I have wanted and dreamed about, and thought I’d lost. I love you, I feel like I have always loved you.” He fastened his mouth to the tender skin at Tony’s hip and sucked, a burning ache as he brought blood to the surface and then soothed it with his tongue.  

“Such a--” Tony broke off, hissing, and wound his fingers in Stephen’s hair, slid them over Stephen’s shoulders. “Such a sentimentalist,” he accused breathlessly. “I can’t, I don’t-- _Ah!_ I haven’t always loved you, that’s ridiculous and illogical. I do, however, know the exact moment I realized that I had come to love you, so there’s that.”

“Perhaps not _always_ ,” Stephen said. “I remember being a boy and loving nothing so well as an afternoon free of lessons and a stolen chocolate pudding. But there has always been a space, I think, waiting for you. I did not even realize the moment when I discovered you fit there so well. But it might well ruin me now, to have you taken from it.” Another row of kisses, scattered over Tony’s belly. “Here, darling, and let me--” He raised a hand and summoned, from one of the drawers, a small vial of oil.

Tony chuckled. “I do like a man who is prepared for all eventualities.” He shifted his position slightly, drew up one knee to invite Stephen in even closer. “We’ve been here before, you know. A dozen times, or a hundred, in my dreams. Imagination pales.”

“Does it?” Stephen opened the bottle with his teeth, wet his fingers and set the cork aside. He drizzled the oil down Tony’s length, using it to ease the way, and then down, lower. “Did you imagine this? How often, do I wonder, that we lost the opportunity to enjoy each other?” He circled his slicked finger around Tony’s opening, testing the muscle. “I hesitated. I’m sorry.”

“No more than I did,” Tony pointed out. He arched into the light, almost teasing touch, seeking more pressure. “There’s no room in here for sorry. Just--” Stephen breached him then, and he shivered at the sensation, that delicious intrusion, the slight ache that heralded pleasure. “Yes, that,” he urged. “More of that.” He curled up to capture Stephen’s mouth in another kiss, hot and panting. “Can you? Are your hands strong enough? I can do it, if it would spare you pain.”

“Watching you do it will be its own torture,” Stephen told him, but handed the bottle over. “But if you do this now, I will have strength enough later to bring you satisfaction.” He nuzzled at Tony’s throat.

“A fair trade,” Tony allowed. He tipped his head back for a moment, enjoying the soft rasp of Stephen’s beard against the tender skin of his neck, then curled forward, pouring more oil over his fingers and contorting his arm slightly to reach, opening himself up, not as gently or delicately as Stephen had begun, but eagerly, hungry to learn the feel of Stephen leaning over him, Stephen’s weight pressing down on him, covering him. He couldn’t press as deeply as he’d like on his own, but he could coax the stubborn outer ring into softening, letting him in.

“You are a treasure,” Stephen told him, leaned back to watch Tony’s face intently. He seemed unable to keep from touching, palming Tony’s cock, reaching up to circle a sensitive nipple, kissing his throat, his chin, the corner of Tony’s mouth. “I can’t resist you any more than the dragon could resist gold.” He made a strangled sound in his throat as Tony moved, the mere sight pushing him into desperate passion.

“Luckily, I don’t want you to resist,” Tony said, laughing a little. He bit his lip and twisted his wrist, let out another soft moan at Stephen’s constant touches. “I want you to have all of me.” He pulled his hand free and poured more oil into it, reaching this time to smooth it over Stephen’s cock, letting himself feel each little curve and ridge. “Come and claim me.”

“Darling,” Stephen called him, and _treasure_ , and _precious_ , and he shifted until he was cradled between Tony’s thighs, the length of him nudging at that ring of muscle. “There is nothing, nothing I want more.” The ship’s motion on the seas was a hindrance, shifting them away from each other, before it became a pattern to move to. Stephen pushed in, groaning at the feel of it, and then let the waves rock them together. Slow, sensual, steady, Stephen took him, a few inches at a time, until they were joined near seamlessly.

Tony groaned again and tucked his face into the curve of Stephen’s neck, wrapping his arms around Stephen’s shoulders. “God, yes,” he sighed. “It feels so... so _right_.” He nuzzled at the curve of Stephen’s throat, nipping and licking, listening to the rough burr of Stephen’s breath. “Come on, sweetheart, give it to me.”

Stephen moaned, breathless, and moved, his long legs flexing, his hips rolling, rocking himself into Tony’s body. “I have you,” he said, brushing Tony’s hair out of his face, dropping tiny, soft kisses against Tony’s cheek and nose, breathing into his ear. “I have you, darling, my darling. So beloved.”

Those sweet endearments were going to be the death of him, Tony felt certain. He’d taken -- and given -- pleasure often enough in his life that little shocked him anymore. But those breathless words, the frantic urgency with which Stephen whispered them in Tony’s ear, as if Tony truly were something precious, to be cherished and adored... Tony shivered against and let himself fall into the moment, carnal sensations and airy-sweet words, barely noticing the way his own pleasure mounted higher and higher with each passing moment, his skin tingling with barely-restrained heat, breath catching in his throat with each roll of their bodies. “Stephen, oh... Oh sweetheart, yes, I...”

There was nothing else in the world, the two of them moving together with a single, shattering goal in mind. The soft heat of it, the perfect roll and thrust, the way Stephen kept returning to Tony’s mouth, licking his way inside and matching those perfect thrusts with deep, sweet kisses. Until Stephen was panting, hard, against the side of Tony’s throat, slick with sweat. He moved his hand between them and urged Tony forward, closing his hand around Tony’s cock. Sliding together, up into Stephen’s fist, and down, as Stephen plunged into him, dizzy with wanting, rocking back and forth with the ship’s movement. A carousel of sensation, until there was no up or down, just the pull and push. “Love you, Tony, I love you.”

“Stephen, yes, love, I love you.” Tony panted, writhing with sensation, drunk and dizzy on it, wanting it to go on and on and on... His climax very nearly took him by surprise, sweeping over him in waves and carrying him away. “Oh God, oh God, oh, oh Stephen, I--”

Stephen made a sound of his own, not musical, nor muffled, but it was sweet and sincere and he stiffened, the cords in his neck standing out as he strained. “Tony--” he rocked his hips against Tony a few more times, almost to the point of overstimulation, before he groaned again, and shuddered. He kept himself propped up, trying not to squash Tony in the narrow bunk, his arms quivering with the effort, until he was able to draw back. “That was… almost perfect.” He squinched in the space between Tony and the inner wall of the ship. “But perhaps a larger bed would not go amiss?”

“Next time,” Tony agreed, shifting and twisting to make room without dumping himself onto the floor. “Next time, we’ll go somewhere with a bigger bed.”


	19. Chapter 19

Tony had actually been quite toasty and comfortable in the offices back in London, despite the heavy snow outside, right up until Pepper came into his office and threw a courier packet on his desk. “We’ve got him. Evidence on Obadiah,” she said. “This just came in.”

The packet on the desk didn’t look like a poisonous snake. Or it should not have. But it did, like whatever was inside that neatly bound package was deadly dangerous.

Tony reminded himself that he had faced the fae and murderous sorcerers and pirates and an actual for-God’s-sake tourney of warriors, and that opening an innocuous paper-wrapped bundle should not be utterly heart-freezing. Still, it was a long moment before he could reach out with numbed fingers to untie the strings and fold back the paper flaps.

The page on top was an envelope marked _Returned_ ; Tony drew out the letter with shaking hands and closed his eyes for a moment before unfolding it to read. It was signed merely “O. S.” but the letters were familiar enough, the long swoop of the descendants and the sharp point of the upward lines. The contents arranged a sale of Stark weaponry for far less than its market value, along with “services rendered”.

What services, Tony wondered, even as his eye wandered to the date of the letter -- only weeks before Tony’s fateful voyage to London.

The next envelope was addressed to Obie directly. Tony did not recognize its hand, but it instructed Obie to “place the enclosed ring on the finger of the doomed man, and leave the rest to us.”

The letter fluttered from Tony’s fingers as he pressed them to his eyes. “I... had hoped you were wrong,” he murmured.

There wasn’t much in the way of compromise in Pepper’s steely gaze, but the corner of her mouth softened a little. “He tried to give my assistant some song and dance about you being ‘changed from your experiences’ about his pitch to the board to have you removed entirely. She managed to recover these things for me, and got on the first packet boat out of the harbor. We’ve got her someplace safe, for the time being. The vote’s in less than a week, Tony. There’s no time…”

Tony grinned at her, though it felt like a rictus. “There’s always time, now.” He stood up, carefully refolded the packet of evidence together, and kissed Pepper’s cheek. “Good job,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.”

He pulled on his greatcoat and wound a scarf around his throat with meticulous care, and couldn’t quite look directly at the collected evidence, even as he tucked it securely up under his arm. “Keep the gears turning,” he said, light and hollow, and pushed out of the office and into the snow.

It wasn’t terribly far from the London office to the Sanctum, and Tony knew the path well, having walked it or taken a coach several times a week since their adventures had ended. Stephen was always glad to see him, and Wong did his best not to look terribly unhappy about Tony’s frequent visits. He was mostly successful.

But the evening seemed even colder than it had before, and Tony would have been well served to get a hack, or call Happy around to hitch the carriage, but Tony wasn’t sure he could bear any more _waiting_.

Which meant that he was coated in snow, his fingers were numb and his teeth were rattling in his head by the time he climbed the stairs to the Sanctum.

The Sanctum was a huge building, many stories, a marvel of architecture. And yet, most people seemed to look right past it, as if they didn’t even notice its wonders. The stairs seemed to greet Tony like an old friend, and the door was almost glowing in the dark, but the people on the street didn’t even look.

Tony laid his hand against the door -- it felt warm, as if the tropical beach where they had first met was behind it -- and then pushed it open. He couldn’t help the small smile as he entered the Sanctum’s foyer; Stephen had told him the door would open to his hand even as Wong glowered disapprovingly, but it had yet to become less of a wonder, that he was welcome here. _Wanted_.

Spirits somewhat bolstered, he called out, “Stephen?”

A bubble, like one blown from a child’s soap wand, formed, and when it popped, there was the subtle scent of incense, and Stephen’s voice. “You’ll find me in the Observatory today, heart’s darling. Follow the lamps, they’ll show you the way.” And indeed, the lanterns flared brightly in the direction they wanted him to go.

The Observatory was not what Tony would have thought in conjunction with that word; instead of a telescope and star charts, he found Stephen staring through a large window that looked over a desert landscape, the sort that wasn’t in London, nor anywhere in England at all. The sun baked the land, and the sand was dry and swirling in the listless wind. There wasn’t a plant or living thing to be seen in any direction.

Tony went to Stephen’s side and caught the sorcerer’s hand in his, lifting it to his lips in greeting. “I need your help,” he confessed.

“Anything within my power,” Stephen said at once, “and I’m afraid you know that it is quite a bit more far-reaching than the usual declaration of love-struck fools, so use it wisely.”

Tony smiled, though it felt a little strained. “I need to go to New York. Within the next day, if possible.” He hefted the packet. “Evidence has been found.”

Stephen actually took his attention off the window -- much like Tony himself, Stephen could get quite wrapped up in his work, although Tony wasn’t sure how watching sand blow in the desert was a task, really -- to raise an eyebrow at his lover. “I take it we are not simply depositing this evidence in the hands of lawyers, like sane and normal people.”

Tony shook his head. “Obie is friends with, owed favors from, too many barristers and lawyers and politicians to trust that the law will serve its purpose. I must depose him before an audience -- the board meeting, in four days’ time, for instance.”

Something moved under the dunes out the window and Stephen stared, watching a lump under the sand move, but then it retreated again, the wind and dust looking quite perfectly normal. “Well, getting you there and back is no difficult matter,” he said. “Tell me, do you need an escort? I have a very promising young student here who would be glad of a simple task. She’s quite in disfavor with her tutor at the moment, but don’t let on that I said she was brilliant. She’s conceited enough as it is. Reminds me… of me.”

Tony chuckled. “Thank you, love, but no. It would be best if I attract as little attention as possible before I reveal my purpose to the board. If you can send me there, and perhaps arrange my return in, say, a week, that would be more than enough.”

“Certainly,” Stephen said. He scowled at the window as if it had personally insulted his Cloak. “I… could accompany you. I promise not to attract any attention, excepting your own.” He touched Tony’s cheek. “It is only that I shall miss you dreadfully. I look forward to your visits, you know. Quite depend upon them.”

Tony turned into the touch, catching the tips of Stephen’s fingers with a kiss. “I’ll miss you, too. But I wouldn’t want to take you from your work, and it’s just for a week. I’ll be fine. It’s only Obie.” He sighed. “I’ll depend on you for comfort, when I return.”

“Of course,” Stephen said. He leaned closer to the window for a moment, then, “this way, you can step through the connecting door. The apprentice in New York is called Nico. She’ll lead you to the main doors and into Manhattan. If you change your mind, just tell her I told her to guard you. And of course, you can always claim Sanctuary, if you need a safe place to stay.”

“I’ll be fine,” Tony repeated. He leaned up to brush a kiss across Stephen’s lips. “It’s just business, after all. It’s hardly walking into a dragon’s lair.”

“All right,” Stephen said. He walked across the Observatory and opened the door with a dramatic gesture. The Door did not seem inclined to be helpful, and opened into a broom closet at first, and then the back of a barn somewhere before finally relenting and opening into the New York Sanctum. “I shall count the minutes as hours.”

“Sentimental,” Tony accused lightly, but he kissed Stephen again, and then once more for the comfort of it, and one last time for luck, before reluctantly releasing Stephen’s hand and stepping through the Door.

The girl who escorted him out of the building had dark hair, large, luminous eyes, and carried a very large stick. She appeared to be in her mid-teens, all moody attitude and serious effort put into her wardrobe to look impressive. She barely stammered over her greeting and saw Tony to the door in a mostly professional manner.

It was snowing in New York, too. The girl, Nico, leaned toward Tony as he bid her farewell and tucked his scarf around his neck a little tighter. “I hate this weather,” she told him seriously. “It’s hard to be an intimidating sorcerer when one is bundled into a coat like a sausage.”

“Luckily for me,” Tony told her with as much false cheer as he could muster, “I am not a sorcerer. And all the other businessmen are at least as sausage-like as I am.”

Nico made a quick gesture. “Ah, look, there’s a hack for you,” she said. There was a swirl of purple light and a hint of sparkles, and sure enough, a hired coach was just pulling up to the sidewalk, and if the driver seemed a bit confused, he was quick enough to know money when he saw it and take Tony on as a passenger.

Tony thanked Nico, and then climbed into the hack and directed the driver to his New York residence. Which had been shut up months ago and was going to be cold, but Tony knew how to light a damn fire on his own, at least. He would light the fire and find some suitable clothes to change into and read through the rest of the evidence so he would be prepared when he appeared before the board.

The house was cold, dark, and coated in a fine layer of dust. There was a drift of letters than had been shoved through the slot and neglected. Even being declared dead did not stop the US Post Office, Tony supposed. The kitchen looked less abandoned; ashes in the fireplace were still somewhat warm. There’d been a fire there in the last day or so. Tony wasn’t sure if one of the old servants still remained with the old place, or if a squatter had taken up residence.

There were a few potatoes in the dry sink and one of the hand-held oil lamps on the counter next to it. Lighting the lamp with a lucifer revealed that yes, one of the servants had remained in the house.

Edwin Jarvis, who’d been his father’s butler, and then Tony’s own, was sleeping on a cot in the cook’s room, startling awake as soon as the light struck his face.

“Sir!”

“Jarvis!” Tony blinked in shock. “What are you doing here?”

Jarvis yawned and sat up. “Waiting for you, sir,” he said, as if it were perfectly ordinary. “It’s good to see you again. I would have prepared the house for you, sir, if I’d got word that you were expected.”

“Being unexpected is the point,” Tony said. “Don’t worry about the house; I just need one room, and some dinner. I won’t be staying long. A few days at most.”

“Of course, sir, right away,” Jarvis said. “I’ll get a fire laid up in the peacock room; that one holds the heat best. You get some rest, change out of these damp things, while I get you something to eat.” Jarvis’s fussing was old, familiar. Comforting. The one person in the whole city, since Rhodey and Pepper had stayed in London, that might be glad of Tony’s arrival. He couldn’t help a smile as the old man tugged Tony into a small bedroom and helped him off with his snow-covered coat.

“That’ll be perfect, Jarvis; thank you.” He let Jarvis chivvy him into a chair and waited while the fire was lit and Jarvis had left again to go find some food. Finally beginning to relax, Tony unwrapped the packet again and started to go through the letters, one at a time, each more damning than the last. The story they told was despicable, and if Tony hadn’t been holding the evidence in his own hands, he would never have believed his genial “Uncle” Obie capable of such venality and betrayal.

He wasn’t aware of the passage of time until the oil lamp guttered in a sudden rush of air, just before the bedroom door swung open. The shape in the doorway was much too large to be Jarvis’s return with dinner and a bucket of coal.

“Tony, m’boy,” Obie said, his smile as wide as ever, but as innocent as a shark’s. He took a step into the room and held up a small crystal rod, brilliant white, which emitted a sharp sound and a flurry of sparks. “Tony, easy there, just breathe.”

How the hell-- Tony gathered the letters and stood up.. or tried. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach out a hand or a foot, couldn’t even turn his head, though his eyes rolled and his breathing continued and his heart kept beating behind Spin, faster and faster.

“Nifty little thing, isn’t it? So many uses for short-term paralysis. It’s a shame, really, that it only works a short period of time. And only on one person,” Obie said, cheerfully. “Ten Rings, you know. I wasn’t sure if I believed in all that magic mumbo-jumbo, but… well, it’s quite fascinating, really.”

Obie came closer, tucking the rod or wand or whatever it was into his pocket. He walked around Tony’s desk, meaty hand on Tony’s shoulder, like he was congratulating him on a job well done. “You know, I really wasn’t sure, when I sent you into those pirates’ hands, if I was killing a golden goose. Your mind, really, it’s always producing such wonders of science and engineering. But magic, Tony. Magic is where the real power is, and I aim to be part of that power.”

He leaned even closer, breath wet and smelling of whiskey, like he was going to kiss Tony’s ear or something. “Too bad you won’t live to see it.”

_No!_ Tony screamed, or tried. His jaw wouldn’t open, his tongue lay limp and inert in his mouth. He couldn’t flinch away from Obie’s hands as they reached for him, reached for his chest, for _Spin_.

“Shhh, shhh,” Obie said, as if he was soothing the child that Tony had been from a nightmare. “I’ll have to deal with Miss Potts, too, I suppose. You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, had to get other people involved. That’s very careless of you. Just relax. Fighting just makes it hurt.”

_Keep your damn hands off Pepper!_ Tony wanted to snarl, rage and fear tangling in his gut. He struggled against the magical binding, fought it with all his strength -- but he simply couldn’t move. It was as if his body belonged to someone else, and he were merely a passenger.

Obie stoked down Tony’s face with one hand. “Your heart beat should slow down, there, there we go. We had to do a lot of research for this, Tony. You should be grateful. I was all for just ripping it out of your chest, but we have to convince her to leave on her own. You accepted a burden you weren’t prepared for. There, there we go. She thinks you’re dying, she’ll come to a new master now.”

_Spin, no, don’t, not him, don’t let him take you,_ he begged, but she was only a ring, she had no soul. She didn’t care who wore her, or how, or what they used her for. _Don’t leave me._ He couldn’t even summon the same urgency as before. It felt like a soft blanket was lulling him to sleep. Christ, Stephen would be so hurt, so devastated. Tears blurred Tony’s vision, turning Obie into a looming dark shadow. _No_.

Spin flittered in his chest, thrumming, and he could feel her, sliding through his body until she brushed the surface of his skin. Obie unbuttoned Tony’s shirt impersonally, took a handkerchief from his pocket, as if to wipe away a blood stain. Like Tony’s skin was something filthy and horrific that Obie couldn’t bring himself to touch. Or as if Spin herself was corrupted.

From the very corner of his eye, Tony saw a movement, like a brilliant flutter of wings. A tiny butterfly with wings like the inside of an oyster shell, beautiful nacre blue and green, darted into the room from the hallway.

Spin paused in her extraction, the aching pain in Tony’s chest like his very heart was being ripped out, stopped. Curiosity, hope, longing battered Tony from the ring’s very limited perception.

The butterfly was significant. Wasn’t it? It was winter. There weren’t any butterflies in the winter. He looked at the butterfly again, dazedly curious. He tried to lift a hand to point at it, but his limbs still weren’t his own.

“Stubborn thing,” Obie muttered. “She seems to like you, Tony. Suitable, really, how the only things that care about you are an idiot butler, so excited to have you home, and a heartless, soulless ring.” Obie pinched at Tony’s skin through the handkerchief, trying to pluck the ring out of its resting place.

That _hurt_ , pulling at Tony’s skin, at his bones, at his very heart -- but he couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even open his mouth. His eyes bulged against their sockets with the pressure of the scream that couldn’t leave his throat.

“She does not belong to you,” a voice said, suddenly. The butterfly shimmered and shifted until Stephen stood there, right behind Obie’s shoulder. “Do step back before I am forced to make you.”

_Stephen! Look out!_ Tony would weep with frustration at his impotent limbs, but weeping, too, was beyond him.

Obie jerked back, striking Stephen in the sternum with a sharp elbow, a tiny pistol appearing in one meaty hand.

Stephen barely winced away, taking the blow as if it were nothing. Noticed the gun and flicked a hand at it, dissolving it into a dozen or more butterflies. “You think to contend with a Ring bearer? Do you feel confident enough to face one who controls five?” Stephen spread his hands, the fingers straight and proud and graceful, displaying five glittering rings, each glowing with power. “Spin, return,” he told Tony’s ring with tenderness. “Your master needs your healing.”

Spin sank back into Tony’s chest and warmth spread from the ring, soothing the pain away like a lover’s kiss. Tony couldn’t take his eyes from Stephen’s hands, the rings there terrible and bright. _Stephen, no, you mustn’t!_

Stephen gestured with a handful of rings and Obie rose into the air, gasping, choking, reaching for his throat to pry off invisible fingers. “When my apprentice told me what she saw, death hovering around Tony, claws close to snatch him away, I came at once. I expected… many things. But not that the man who’d raised him, practically from infancy, someone he cared for, and trusted… was going to murder him in cold blood. For power?”

Stephen twisted his hand cruelly and Obie choked. “Do you like how power tastes, Mr. Stane? How it _feels_?”

_No. No! Stephen, no!_ Tony fought even harder, straining to move so much as a muscle. Stephen, above all, did not kill, tried not to even _harm_ \-- this was not his Stephen; it was the Rings. _Help me,_ he demanded of Spin. _Lift me._

Spin did as Tony asked, yanking him out of the chair like some crude marionette, motions lacking grace or power, but _motion_ , nonetheless.

Stephen seemed utterly unaware of Tony, allowing Obie just enough air to let him live through horrible suffocation, mocking him with a cunning light in his eyes. Whatever terror Stephen had experienced to make him don the rings, whatever love had led him to do so, those things had abandoned him, and he was merely rejoicing in the power at his command.

Tony focused on Stephen. _There. Him. Go!_ Spin flung him through the air like a ragdoll thrown by a child’s temper tantrum, limbs lolling uselessly, until he collided with Stephen, knocking them both to the floor in a tangle.

Obie fell, some distance from them, gasping for air, a dark band of bruises forming around his throat. He choked and spluttered, seeming lost to anything but the need to breathe.

“Tony,” Stephen said, turning Tony over. That light of madness had gone out and there was only Tony’s concerned lover peering anxiously into his face. “Tony, are you hurt, what… what did he do to you?” He speared a glance at Obie, then… “What have _I_ done?”

Tony strained to lift his hand, and -- all at once, as if it were suddenly released from a hold -- it flew up, knocking clumsily into Stephen’s shoulder, glancing off and narrowly missing Stephen’s jaw. “Stephen!” he gasped, relief and dread washing over him as his heart pounded with fear. “Sweetheart, you-- don’t. Put them away, Stephen. You don’t need them here.”

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Stephen said, voice shaking. “You were going to die. Nico foresaw it. I was going to _lose you_.” He stared at his hands, the fingers still perfect. The hands of a concert pianist. The hands of a surgeon. Steady and sure.

Tony folded those hands over, covered them with his own. They were delicate, graceful hands, but they did not belong to Tony’s lover. “You saved me,” he promised. He glanced at Obie, still gasping for breath on the floor. “I’m all right. You haven’t lost me. You need to put them away now, sweetheart. You don’t need them.”

“I was going to lose you,” Stephen repeated, and he stared at Tony, gaze filled with ragged pain. “And if I don’t give these up, I will lose you in a much more profound manner.” He shuddered all over and stripped the rings off his fingers, letting them fall into his lap. “I would have looked back later, and saw that your death would have been a kindness, instead of watching your trust in me fail.”

Tony let out a shuddering breath of relief and threw his arms around Stephen in a frantic embrace. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered. “Thank you.” He tucked his head against Stephen’s throat. “I love you.”

Stephen cupped the back of Tony’s head, and even through his hair, Tony could feel the gnarled shape of Stephen’s fingers like a benediction. “You are the whole world contained within a single soul.”

It would, Tony decided later, have been delightful, romantic, and a perfect moment, except Obie chose that exact second to lunge for the handful of rings carelessly scattered on the floor between them. “One last golden egg, Tony, m’boy,” Obie said, Zero, Incandescent and Nightbringer all clenched in one greedy palm. “Contend with a Master of three rin--”

Tony and Spin had never been more perfectly in accord. He didn’t have to explain his desires to her, or even issue a command. He lifted a hand, pointing, and Spin’s full force vibrated down his very bones, a blast of power that knocked Obie over and then over again, slamming him into the wall with a loud _thump_ , knocking plaster loose and leaving a dent. Obie slumped to the floor, unconscious, and the rings tumbled free of his hand, glittering malevolently. In his chest, Spin hummed in spiteful, smug satisfaction.

“Is it too late to change our minds and contact law enforcement? Say it’s not too late for that,” Stephen said, stroking Tony’s cheek. “I think we should really… let someone else handle this.” He opened one hand and pulled the rings to him, letting them float in a haze of magic before enclosing them in the Time Stone’s green radiance and sending them back into the future. “And perhaps, find a more secure location for the rings. They tempt us all, so close.”

Tony slumped against Stephen’s side, taking comfort from the closeness, the warm solidity of his lover. “I think you may be right,” he admitted. “Just as soon as we concoct a story for them that leaves out all the magic bits.”

“He’s quite obviously insane,” Stephen suggested. “Broke into your home, screaming about magic rings and waved a crystal at you.”

Tony nodded and patted the pile of letters on the table, scattered but -- thank God -- not destroyed. “Driven mad by the failure of his plotting, no doubt. I suspect even his most staunch political allies will be reluctant to back a lunatic. Yes. Let’s go call for the police. And then, hopefully soon, we can go home.”


	20. Chapter 20

Stephen glanced over at Wong. There was snow falling, a thousand stars glittering as they fell to the ground. “You’d think, after all this time, I’d be ready.”

Wong shot Stephen a dry look. Drier than usual. Stephen was going to need a glass of water if he kept it up. “If you weren’t ready, why would you be here? Stop looking so terrified. You’re getting married, not hanged.”

“And you say this from the experience of your own long and very successful marriage,” Stephen said, the corner of his mouth quirking up just a little. Not, he supposed, that he and Tony had been very much removed from the state of being married; Tony had more of his possessions in the Sanctum than his own mansion. Well, except for his workshop, since magic and Tony’s tinkering didn’t seem to get along very well. Still… “What if I mess this up, Wong?”

Wong stopped giving Stephen that dry look long enough to roll his eyes. “It’s a marriage, not a summoning. He’s not going to eat you and drag your soul down to Hell if you make a mistake. Apologize and get on with things.”

“You are remarkably calm about this,” Stephen said. He fussed, looking in the mirror again. Something was wrong, though he wasn’t sure what. The way the traditional Kamar-Taj robes looked, deep blue with brown wrappings that still seemed exotic to his Western-trained eyes. “What if he messes it up?”

“Then I’ll summon a demon to eat him and drag his soul down to Hell,” Wong said readily, and smirked at Stephen’s expression. “You walked into that.”

Stephen shook his head, more to hide his smile than denying anything. He had, indeed, walked right into it. “You know, sometimes I wonder what God, being, or power nudged me in the direction of Kamar-Taj, when everything in my life was a wreck and a ruin. And then you say something like that, and I decide that whatever it was… it knew that you needed someone to listen to your terrible jokes, and thus, I was provided.”

“The fates move in mysterious ways,” Wong agreed. He folded his arms. “Are you ready yet?”

Stephen took another deep breath to steady himself. It was not that he had doubts about Tony. He didn’t doubt that Tony loved him, or that he loved Tony. He was fairly certain that the two of them were better together, rather than apart. If only because then Wong only had one place to look, in case there was trouble. Usually, they were the cause of the trouble, but that was all right, too.

He wasn’t even sure what, exactly, was unnerving him. The ceremony? It was a simple thing, attended by their good friends, who would probably have a good laugh if something went decidedly pear-shaped, and then they’d get back to the business at hand.

He loved Tony. He did. And he wanted to spend the rest of his life loving the man.

And yet, that something… that something they could never quite figure out. It still hung over them. Some sword of Damocles, hanging by a slender thread.

_It will be there, wedding or no. Ring or no. Love, or not. Might as well face it together as apart._

“I’m ready.”

“Good, because they’re ready to get started and if you don’t show up, who knows who he’ll decide to marry instead?”

Stephen laughed, clapping Wong on the shoulder. “Yes, let us go and save that someone else from that. Tony is a special, rare flower. The average husband would not appreciate him as he should be.”

The great hall of the Sanctum was lined with flowers, a few guests, and some of the more friendly sorts of extra-dimensional beings that had alliances with the Sanctum. A Djinn, a few of the fair folk, that sort of thing. Music swelled as Stephen approached the path. Tony would meet him there, and they would proceed together to the Sanctum’s pillar to recite their vows and make their promises.

Tony was accompanied by his friend, Rhodes. Rhodes and Wong exchanged a long-suffering glance that suggested Tony had endured his own pre-ceremonial jitters and inflicted them on his best friend.

Whatever his worries, though, Tony looked stunning. He wore a Western-style suit, but its color exactly matched the blue of Stephen’s robes, and a bright emerald was tucked into his neckerchief that winkingly echoed the Eye of Agamotto at Stephen’s own throat. His hair had been carefully styled and his beard trimmed to a hair, and none of that mattered nearly as much as the way Tony smiled when he met Stephen’s eyes, a soft, wondering smile of pure joy. He reached out a hand, closed his fingers gently on Stephen’s. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” Stephen said, and he gave Tony’s hand as much of a squeeze as he could, relishing the feeling of Tony’s warm skin. There were guests, old friends, and new allies, and Stephen barely saw any of them, lost in the single perfection of walking up the aisle with his intended. The circle, at the end of the great hall, was protected by two watcher spirits. One of the Druids of Vishanti, who gave up their names when they took their oaths, would oversee the ceremony itself, a binding of two hearts, two souls, and a single, great love.

Stephen wasn’t sure, exactly, what the proper etiquette was for a service of Vishanti. He’d never been to one before.

But he was pretty sure that someone drunkenly kicking the door in and announcing, “I obhe-- I… here, hold my beer. I object!” was not a usual part of the ceremony.

Tony looked around with wide, startled eyes. “What the--” And then he gasped out something that sounded like a laugh. “Val!” He abandoned his spot at Stephen’s side to dash down the aisle and embrace the tall warrior. “You came!”

“You are--” She hiccupped, picking Tony up and spinning him around like he was a child. “Not-- no… where’s my beer? Not getting married without me. This-- you all are honored! This man’s… a great warrior.” She staggered in the general direction of her beer. “A great warrior, an’ he’s marrying a great wizard, an’... that deserves. Meade! From the halls of Asgard.”

Stephen blew a gusty breath. “Well, that was… unexpected. Look, Wong. It’s your girlfriend.”

Wong made a soft _hmph_ sound, but he stepped forward to coax Val to put Tony down and find a seat with the other guests. She seemed reluctant at first, but he stretched up to murmur into her ear, and she stared at him, grinning, for a moment and then announced, “I’sa deal!” and swaying toward the nearest seat, not bothering to check whether it was occupied before flopping into it.

“I can tell our holidays are going to be quite exciting from now on,” Stephen said, as Tony made his way back to the circle, practically intoxicated by the fumes that had been coming off Val. “I must say, I’m looking forward to opening the wedding presents. Assuming, we ever have the wedding?”

Tony grinned at him and took his hand again. “Quick,” he said to the Druid, “before anyone else interrupts.”

The blessings of peace were cast to the cardinal directions, the circle of mystical energy braided and cast. Vows were offered, to love, cherish, and protect the other. Their hands linked and knotted together with a slender, silken cord.

“All things are circular. Day becomes night, and once again to day. The years turn, the seasons pass. Let your love rise, and become bright, and even when dark comes, or there is trouble, know that in the center of the circle is the stillness, and peace, and perfection of your love. By the mystical power, I declare you bound.”

Stephen felt the low quiver of power through the cord that encircled his wrist, binding him to Tony, and Tony to him. “Through times of uncertainty, along dark roads, and throughout all of time, I pledge to love, and honor, you, above all others, for the entirety of my life.”

The cord glowed, soft and golden, as Stephen’s vow gave it power, strength, meaning.

Tony twitched a little, feeling the power in the cord binding them, and stared at the way it glowed, but his hand stayed steady in Stephen’s, and he looked into Stephen’s eyes as he repeated his own vows, giving his oath to stand at Stephen’s side, to love Stephen for the whole of his life.

The cord glowed again, the power running through it like the current in a stream, thrumming along Stephen’s nerves. For a long moment, they were bathed in its light, and then it faded from sight, but not from memory, or even, from them, residing instead, a sacred bond, inside their very skin. “They’re not kidding around, are they?” he whispered to Tony.

“We may be even more married than I thought we’d be,” Tony whispered back, flashing Stephen a hint of a grin.

“By the power of your oaths, and before these witnesses present, I declare you bound. Share a kiss, and then share your joy among these friends gathered today.”

Tony didn’t hesitate, and didn’t let go of Stephen’s hand, either, using it to tug him closer. Tony’s chin tipped up and those lips curled into a nearly insufferable smirk for just an instant before they met Stephen’s in a soft, chaste kiss.

“I do love you,” Stephen told him. He used his free hand to lightly brush Tony’s cheek and made to turn toward their guests. The Cloak seemed, however, unsatisfied with a gentle, nearly sedate kiss, and wrapped itself around them both, yanking them together with a squeeze. Stephen choked on a laugh, then brought his mouth down to Tony’s for a much more thorough kiss.

Even that wasn’t the best kiss they’d shared, both of them fighting laughter, but that feeling of lightness, of joy, that felt perfect. Tony wrapped his hand around Stephen’s neck, working his fingers into Stephen’s hair. When the Cloak finally seemed to feel that the kiss had been sufficient and let them loose, Tony practically fell back, flushed and panting for breath. “Hello, husband.”

“Hello, my darling,” Stephen responded. “My husband. My truest friend. My own.”

“And well relieved I am,” Wong said, “to pass along Stephen’s guardianship to you. He makes me tired. And hungry. Let us go and put a dent in your wedding feast.”

***

The food was excellent, the finest and freshest that could be found (and liberal use made of Stephen’s portals), prepared by the finest chefs that Tony could find.

He barely tasted any of it.

He was swept up in his friends’ well-wishes, pulled away to dance, to meet new people (and other beings), to tell an anecdote, to comment on the ceremony and the vows. When he did manage to escape back to his seat at the table and steal a few bites, his attention was on Stephen far more than on his food, and on that odd sensation of the cord binding their wrists, still there under his skin, as if it would continue to bind them no matter how far apart they were.

Tony didn’t mind, really. He could have fine food whenever he wanted it, after all. It wasn’t every day that he was married.

He snuck another look at Stephen, who was trading quips with Wong over some little thing, and he knew, _knew_ , that his expression was ridiculously fond and affectionate, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Well, if ever a man was allowed to be sentimental, it should be on his wedding day.

He didn’t see who started it, this time, but it raced through the room -- a chanting demand for a kiss. Laughing, Stephen turned his way and Tony willingly leaned into it, teasing at Stephen’s lips for a moment before letting himself fall into it.

“You are so very beautiful,” Stephen told him, “and I could kiss you a hundred times without growing the least bit tired of it.”

“I hope you’ll kiss me a great deal many more times than that,” Tony teased. “We’ve our wedding night yet to come, after all.”

“Well, I was thinking, more like… a hundred times, per hour.” Stephen winked.

Tony’s brain had automatically begun to calculate trivialities like kisses per minute when a tiny shimmer of light, no larger than his finger, danced along the tablecloth before coming to a stop directly in front of him.

“Wha--” The light resolved into a fairy, looking much less bedraggled and tired than he’d last seen it. “Friday!”

The fairy smiled up at him. “You remember! Honored and delighted! Happy wishes for you and your love!”

Tony did his best to bow from his seated position. “Thank you! I’m glad to see you looking so recovered.”

The fairy’s glow turned a pale shade of pink, as if it were blushing. “For you--” Friday held out… something. Like a crystal, but less substantial, and inside it were tiny, tiny people, like a painting made small. That _moved_ , as if they were alive. “Trade this to you, for my name back.”

Stephen blinked and leaned closer. “Tony, that’s… _us_ , in there.”

Tony leaned in, squinting. “So it is. Wait, what are we--” He looked back at Friday. “What is this?”

“Your memory,” Friday said. “You gave it up, to get the ring. You don’t remember, because you gave it up. It is very valuable, many feelings in this memory. It has been traded, many times, for favors owed. Some of the corners are worn off now, and the color is fading. But it is still good. I get, because boggin is living in my home, and now I am back, want my home back. Boggin has it. I trade memory, for my home. So I give it to you, and you give my name back. It is a good bargain.”

Tony cocked his head. “Wait, if you gave up your home to get the memory, and if you’re giving the memory to us to get your name back, then where are you living?”

“Friday will find a new home. Even a leaf is better than living in ugly dragon jewelry.” Friday shrugged.

“You could come and stay with us,” Tony said. “If you don’t mind the city. In my workshop.” The fairy wouldn’t be comfortable in the Sanctum for long, he knew. Too much clashing magic.

The fairy studied him curiously. “You wish Friday to remain in your debt?”

Tony hadn’t meant his offer to be a trap, but he knew better than to suggest such a thing to the creature. “Only the smallest of favors,” he promised. “Our home is large enough that you would not be a large imposition.”

Friday pondered this, then nodded solemnly. “Is good trade,” it pronounced. “Accepted. And this?” It hefted the memory-bubble. “For my name? Is good trade? You want?”

Tony glanced at Stephen, who was still peering at the memory, his cheeks showing just a hint of flush. “Yes,” he told Friday. “It’s a good trade.”

Friday extended the little memory, until it was cupped in Tony’s hand, and then placed Stephen’s hand over it. “Crush, like-- like this.” Friday mimed pushing down, and twisting one hand over the other. “And you keep.”

Tony braced as Stephen’s hand pressed down, twisting the way Friday had shown them. The little bubble in his palm resisted the pressure for an instant and then gave way with a soft pop and a sensation like sparks falling against his skin, and then... Tony _remembered_.

“ _I would regret never having made the attempt at securing your good opinion… your affections.” Stephen was saying._ The memory was strangely colored, like a bright tunic that had been washed too many times, old and faded. But it was real, _it was real_ and it had happened, and they had declared themselves…

...And then later, among the fair folk. “ _It is precious to you,” the Baroness said. “So delicious, the agony of the choice. Take it, or leave it. You will get no other bargain from me.” She smiled like she was watching a play. Or a murder. There was a gleam there, cold and heartless._

“ _Tony,” Stephen said, and his voice cracked. “I… she’s right. We have time, we’ll still be together. Those… that… I…” He drew in a breath. “Those feelings did not come from nothing. We can begin anew. One night, and we can have… hundreds of them. Later.” Despite that, his eyes filled with tears and one spilled down his cheek and disappeared into his beard. “I love you now. I will love you again.”_

_Tony’s chest ached as if his heart were being pulled physically from his body. He drank in Stephen’s face, that agony, that feeling, that determination. “I will love you again,” he whispered, a promise to them both._

Tony found himself staring at Stephen. They’d declared themselves _weeks_ before Tony had thought, before Mordo’s attack, before the dragon, even. “Oh, love...” Tears were filling his eyes, making the room blur. “I should have known.”

“One night,” Stephen said. “And we will have _hundreds_. Still. I am very, very glad to have this back. You’re so very precious to me, Tony. I will always… always love you.”

Tony cupped the side of Stephen’s face, traced his thumb over Stephen’s lips, remembering, finally, their first kiss. “I love you too,” he murmured. “For all time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap for Strange Seas! Thank you for bearing with us while we explored our ironstrange feelings -- next week, it's back to winteriron, with The Laird and the Lad, a historical romance in which Tony, son of the wealthy industrialist Howard Stark, is betrothed to Bucky, heir to the Scottish Duke of Buchanan. Sparks will fly, and some of them burn hotter than others.
> 
> As always, we're delighted for our readers to come and flail at us on tumblr ([tisfan](https://tisfan.tumblr.com/) / [27dragons](https://27dragons.tumblr.com/)), pillowfort ([tisfan](https://www.pillowfort.io/tisfan) / [27dragons](https://www.pillowfort.io/27dragons)), or on discord (Tisfan#8274 / 27dragons#2243)!


End file.
